Translation by James J. Y. Liu,
From The Art of Chinese Poetry
Who says that this idle feeling has long been left aside?
Whenever spring comes, my melancholy returns as before.
Every day, before the flowers, I'm ill with too much drinking,
Yet dare I refuse to let my image in the mirror grow thin?
O you green grass by the river and willows on the dam,
Pray tell me: why does new sorrow arise with each year?
Alone on a little bridge I stand, my sleeves filled with wind;
The new moon rises above the woods and everyone else is gone.
Translation by Eugene Eoyang, From Women writers of traditional China : an anthology of poetry and criticism
The scent of red lotus fades: the jade mat feels autumnal. Gently loosening the silk gown, I board the orchid boat alone. Who's sending a gilded message in the clouds? When the migrating geese bring word The moon will be full in the Western chamber. Flower petals drift down, the river flows. One kind of longing In two places: idle melancholy. No way to dispel these feelings. For just when they brim the eyes, They go straight to the heart.
Translation by David R. Knechtges,
From Women writers of traditional China : an anthology of poetry and criticism
Newly cut white silk from Qi,
Glistening and pure as frost and snow:
Fashioned into a fan of "conjoined bliss,"
Round, round as the bright moon.
It goes in and out of my lord's breast and sleeve;
Waved, it stirs a gentle breeze.
But I always fear autumn's coming,
When chilling winds dispel blazing heat.
Then it will be thrown into a box,
And his love will be cut off midcourse.
Translation by Cai Zongqi, from How to read Chinese poetry: a guided anthology
Behind the mica screen, candles cast deep shadows The Great River slowly sinks, and dawn stars are drowned Chang-e must regret stealing the elixir— Over blue sea, in dark sky, thinking night after night
Hearing That the Imperial Army Has Retaken HeNan and HeBei
Beyond Swordgate the news suddenly comes that we've recaptured Jibei, on first hearing it, tears cover my clothes. I look around to my wife and children, what sadness remains? I carelessly roll up poems and writing almost mad with delight. White-haired, I sing out loud, I should drink ale as please, with green spring as companion it's just right for going home. I'll go right down through the Ba Gorges, thread my way through the Wu Gourges, then on down to Xiangyang, where I'll head to Luoyang.
(From Du, F., & Owen, S. (2016). The poetry of Du Fu =: Du Fu shi.)