Read 12 poems with pinyin and English translations. Notes record textual variants and differing attributions where relevant.
Qin Guan
The plum blossoms are sparse and pale; the thawing ice flows away; the east wind has secretly changed the shining year. At Golden Valley, that fair roaming; along Bronze Camel Lane; in the new-cleared weather I tread softly on the level sand. Long I remember following the wrong carriage: just then the catkins whirled and the butterflies danced, and thoughts of spring came thronging. Beneath the willows, along the peach paths, spring's color was scattered into every house.
Qin Guan
I lean upon the high pavilion: my grief is like the fragrant grass — thick and rank, mown down and yet growing again. I think of parting beyond the willows where the gray horse stood, and beside the water where I parted from the woman in red sleeves — and I am stricken with a sudden, secret pang.
Qin Guan
The hills are smeared with thin cloud, the sky runs into the withered grass; the painted horn's note dies away at the watch-tower's gate. I stay the departing boat a little, and together we raise the parting cup. How many of the old affairs of Penglai — in vain I look back: mist and haze in confusion. Beyond the slanting sun, ten thousand cold crows; a stream winding about the lonely village.
Qin Guan
West of the city the willows play with the softness of spring, and stir the grief of parting; the tears are hard to stay. I still remember how tenderly you once tied fast the homing boat. The green fields and the red bridge of that day — the person is not to be seen; only the water flows on in vain.
Qin Guan
Delicate clouds weave their art; the flying stars carry the grief; far, far the Silver River is crossed in secret. One meeting in the golden autumn wind and jade-like dew surpasses countless meetings in the human world.
Qin Guan
Beside the water, beyond the sands: the spring chill is leaving the city walls. Flower-shadows all tumbled, the oriole's notes in fragments. Drifting from place to place, I seldom raise the wine-cup; parting has loosened my girdle. He is not to be seen; the blue clouds close at dusk, and I face them in vain.
Qin Guan
The mist has blotted out the towers; the moon confuses the ford. Peach-Blossom Spring, sought until my gaze is spent, cannot be found. How can I bear it: a lonely inn shut fast in the chill of spring, and the cuckoo crying in the slanting sunset?
Qin Guan
A faint chill steals up into the little tower; the dawn's gloom is willful, as if it were autumn. Pale smoke and flowing water: the painted screen is dim.
Qin Guan
Trees ring the village about; the pond brims with water. Leaning into the east wind, I wander where my fancy leads. The garden is small, yet it holds all of spring's light: there are peach flowers red, plum flowers white, and rapeseed flowers yellow.
Qin Guan
An old grief at the sky's edge: alone, desolate, and no one asks after me. To see how my heart twists in sorrow, watch the seal-script coils of incense burn to their end in the golden brazier.
Qin Guan
A heavenly peach tree planted with the dew — no bloom of the common kind. Deep among the tangled hills the water winds away; pity that one spray fair as a painting should bloom — for whom?
Qin Guan
Upon the branch an oriole sings; I hear it through my tears, new tear-stains mingled with the old. All spring the fish and birds have sent no tidings; a thousand miles of hills and passes weary my dreaming soul.
