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Tang poetry
Enter Tang poetry through authors, periods, imagery and cultural relationships.
27 reviewed public itemsQuiet Night Thoughts
Moonlight before my bed— I take it for frost upon the ground. I lift my head and gaze at the bright moon; I lower it, thinking of home.
On the Stork Tower
The white sun sinks behind the hills; the Yellow River flows toward the sea. To take in a thousand miles of view, climb one level higher.
Drinking Alone under the Moon I
Among the flowers, a jug of wine; I drink alone, with no companion near. I raise my cup and invite the bright moon— with my shadow, we become three.
Spring Morning
In spring sleep, dawn arrives unnoticed; everywhere, I hear birds calling. Through the night came the sound of wind and rain— how many blossoms must have fallen?
River Snow
Across a thousand mountains, no bird is in flight; on ten thousand paths, no human trace remains. In a lone boat, an old man in straw cape and hat fishes alone in the snow on the cold river.
Written on a Rainy Night to the North
You ask when I will return; no date is set. Night rain in the Ba Mountains swells the autumn pools. When shall we trim a candle together by the western window and speak again of this night of rain in the Ba Mountains?
Departing Baidi City at Dawn
At dawn I leave Baidi amid rose-tinted clouds; a thousand li to Jiangling, returned in a single day. Gibbons call without cease from both banks, while my light boat has already passed ten thousand mountains.
Deer Enclosure
On the empty mountain no one is seen, yet the sound of human voices carries. Returning light enters the deep wood and shines once more on the green moss.
Bamboo Lodge
Alone I sit deep in the shaded bamboo, playing the zither and then whistling long. Deep in the wood no one knows of it— the bright moon comes and shines on me.
Gazing at the Remaining Snow on Zhongnan
The northern ridge of Zhongnan stands out fine; its banked snow floats at the edge of the clouds. Above the treetops the clearing sky brightens, and in the city the evening cold increases.
Mooring for the Night on the Jiande River
I move the boat and moor by a misted sandbar; the sun sets, and a traveler's sorrow is new again. The plain is wide, the sky hangs below the trees; the river is clear, and the moon comes close to a person.
A Question for Liu the Nineteenth
New unstrained wine, its froth green as ants; a small stove of red clay. Evening comes, the sky is about to snow— can you drink a cup?
Climbing the Leyou Plateau
Toward evening my mood is out of sorts; I drive the carriage up to the ancient plain. The setting sun is boundlessly fine— it is only that dusk is near.
Looking for the Recluse and Not Finding Him
Beneath the pines I question the boy; he says his master has gone to gather herbs. He is only somewhere in this mountain, but the clouds are deep—who knows where?
Written on Coming Home
I left home young and come back old; my home accent unchanged, the hair at my temples thinned. The children see me and do not know me; laughing, they ask where the guest has come from.
On the Ninth Day of the Ninth Month, Remembering My Brothers
Alone in another region, a stranger there, at every festival I think of my kin twice as much. From far off I know my brothers are on the heights, and where all wear dogwood, one man is missing.
Seeing Off Xin Jian at Hibiscus Tower
Cold rain merged with the river as we entered Wu by night; at first light I see my friend off, and the Chu hills stand alone. If kin and friends in Luoyang should ask about me, say a single piece of ice-clear heart is in a jade vessel.
A Liangzhou Song
Fine grape wine in a cup that shines at night; just as we would drink, the pipa on horseback urges us. If I lie drunk on the battlefield, do not laugh at me— how many, since ancient times, have come back from war?
The West Brook at Chuzhou
What I love most is the quiet grass growing by the brook, with an oriole calling above it, deep in the trees. The spring tide, bringing rain, runs fast toward evening; at the wild crossing no one is there, and the boat lies athwart of itself.
Hearing a Flute by Night on the Shouxiang Wall
Before Huile Peak the sand is like snow; beyond the Shouxiang wall the moon is like frost. No one knows where a reed pipe is being blown— all night the campaigning men gaze toward home.
Blackrobe Lane
By Vermilion Bird Bridge, wild grasses are in flower; at the mouth of Blackrobe Lane the evening sun slants. The swallows that once nested before the halls of Wang and Xie now fly into the houses of ordinary people.
Red Cliff
A broken halberd sunk in sand, its iron not yet eaten away; I take it up myself, grind and wash it, and identify an earlier dynasty. Had the east wind not favored young Zhou, deep spring in the Bronze Sparrow Tower would have shut away the two Qiao.
Mooring on the Qinhuai
Mist wraps the cold water, moonlight wraps the sand; at night I moor on the Qinhuai, close by the wine houses. The singing women do not know the grief of a fallen state; across the water they are still singing 'Flowers of the Rear Courtyard.'
An Autumn Evening
Silver candle, autumn light, a painted screen turned cold; a small gauze fan swats at drifting fireflies. On the steps the night air is cool as water; sitting, watching the Herdboy and Weaver Maid stars.