DESCENDING THE EXTREME SOUTH MOUNTAIN;
PASSING THE HOUSE OF HU SSŬ,
LOVER OF HILLS; SPENDING THE
NIGHT IN THE PREPARATION
OF WINE

BY LI T'AI-PO

We come down the green-grey jade hill,
The mountain moon accompanies us home.
We turn and look back up the path:
Green, green, the sky; the horizontal, kingfisher-green line of the hills is fading.
Holding each other's hands, we reach the house in the fields.
Little boys throw open the gate of thorn branches,
The quiet path winds among dark bamboos,
Creepers, bright with new green, brush our garments.
Our words are happy, rest is in them.
Of an excellent flavour, the wine! We scatter the dregs of it contentedly.
We sing songs for a long time; we chant them to the wind in the pine-trees.
By the time the songs are finished, the stars in Heaven's River are few.
I am tipsy. My friend is continuously merry.
In fact, we are so exhilarated that we both forget this complicated machine, the world.

THE TERRACED ROAD OF THE TWO-EDGED SWORD MOUNTAINS

BY LI T'AI-PO

Looking South and straight from Hsien Yang for five thousand _li_,
One could see, among the full, blowing clouds, the rocky sharpness of peaks,
Were it not for the horizontal line of the Two-Edged Sword Mountains cutting across the view.
They are flat against the green sky, and open in the middle to let the sky through.
On their heights, the wind whistles awesomely in the pines; it booms in great, long gusts; it clashes like the strings of a jade-stone psaltery; it shouts on the clearness of a gale.
In the Serpent River country, the gibbons—Oh-h-h-h-h—all the gibbons together moan and grieve.
Beside the road, torrents flung from a great height rush down the gully,
They toss stones and spray over the road, they run rapidly, they whirl, they startle with the noise of thunder.
I bid good-bye to my devoted friend—Oh-h-h-h-h—now he leaves me.
When will he come again? Oh-h-h-h-h—When will he return to me?
I hope for my dear friend the utmost peace.
My voice is heavy, I sigh and draw my breath haltingly.
I look at the green surface of the water flowing to the East.
I grieve that the white sun hides in the West.
The wild goose has taken the place of the swallow—Oh-h-h-h-h—I hear the pattering, falling noises of Autumn.
Dark are the rain clouds; the colour of the town of Ch'in is dark.
When the moon glistens on the Road of the Two-Edged Sword—Oh-h-h-h-h—
I and you, even though in different provinces, may drink our wine opposite each other,
And listen to the talking
Of our hearts.