Driving Out the East Gate

I drive the cart up to the East Gate, and gaze far at the graves north of the walls.

How the white poplars rustle and sigh; pines and cypresses line the broad road.

Beneath lie those long dead—dim, dim, entered into the eternal dusk.

They sleep hidden beneath the yellow springs; a thousand years and never wake.

Vast, vast, yin and yang move on; the span of life is like the morning dew.

A man's life is sudden as a lodging; his years have not the firmness of metal or stone.

Ten thousand years pass in succession; neither sage nor worthy can get beyond.

Those who swallow drugs and seek immortality are mostly ruined by the medicines.

Better to drink fine wine and wrap oneself in silk and plain white cloth.