the wattled fence. 
    I had brought wine and meant to fill my cup,
    When the sight of these made me stay my hand. 
                I remember, when I was young,
    How easily my mood changed from sad to gay. 
    If I saw wine, no matter at what season,
    Before I drank it, my heart was already glad. 
                          But now that age comes,
    A moment of joy is harder and harder to get. 
    And always I fear that when I am quite old
    The strongest liquor will leave me comfortless. 
    Therefore I ask you, late chrysanthemum-flower
    At this sad season why do you bloom alone? 
    Though well I know that it was not for my sake,
    Taught by you, for a while I will open my face.

[27] POEMS IN DEPRESSION, AT WEI VILLAGE

[A.D. 812]

[1]

    I hug my pillow and do not speak a word;
    In my empty room no sound stirs. 
    Who knows that, all day a-bed,
    I am not ill and am not even asleep?

[2]

    Turned to jade are the boy’s rosy cheeks;
    To his sick temples the frost of winter clings.... 
    Do not wonder that my body sinks to decay;
    Though my limbs are old, my heart is older yet.

[28] TO HIS BROTHER HSING-CHIEN, WHO WAS SERVING IN TUNG-CH`UAN

[A.D. 815]

    Sullen, sullen, my brows are ever knit;
    Silent, silent, my lips will not move. 
    It is not indeed that I choose to sorrow thus;
    If I lift my eyes, who would share my joy? 
    Last Spring you were called to the West
    To carry arms in the lands of Pa and Shu;
    And this Spring I was banished to the South
    To nurse my sickness on the River’s oozy banks. 
    You are parted from me by six thousand leagues;
    In another world, under another sky. 
    Of ten letters, nine do not reach;
    What can I do to open my sad face? 
    Thirsty men often dream of drink;
    Hungry men often dream of food. 
    Since Spring came, where do my dreams lodge? 
    Ere my eyes are closed, I have travelled to Tung-ch`uan.

[29] STARTING EARLY FROM THE CH`U-CH`ENG1 INN

[A.D. 815]

    Washed by the rain, dust and grime are laid;
    Skirting the river, the road’s course is flat. 
    The moon has risen on the last remnants of night;
    The travellers’ speed profits by the early cold. 
    In the great silence I whisper a faint song;
    In the black darkness are bred sombre thoughts. 
    On the lotus-banks hovers a dewy breeze;
    Through the rice-furrows trickles a singing stream. 
    At the noise of our bells a sleeping dog stirs;
    At the sight of our torches a roosting bird wakes. 
    Dawn glimmers through the shapes of misty trees ... 
    For ten miles, till day at last breaks.

[30] RAIN