The Good Book_ A Secular Bible - A. C. Grayling [82]
Pencil in hand, on duty in the palace office,
At the height of spring, when I paused from work,
Morning and evening, was this the voice I heard?
Now in my exile the oriole sings again
In the dull stillness of this far town:
The bird’s note cannot be changed,
All the difference lies in the listener’s heart.
If only he could forget that he lives
Exiled at the world’s end,
The oriole would sound the same as when
Its song filled the palace garden.
16
I dreamed that I was back in the city,
I saw again the faces of friends.
And in my dream, under an April sky,
They led me by the hand to wander among spring’s breezes.
Together we came to the village of tranquillity,
We stopped our horses at the gate of friends;
When they saw us coming, smiles lit their faces.
They pointed at the flowers in the western court,
And opened flasks of wine in the summerhouse.
They said none of us had changed,
They regretted that joy will not stay;
That friends meet only for a while,
Then part again with scarcely time for greeting.
I woke, and stretched out my hands to them:
There was nothing there at all.
17
Here among the river gorges there is no lack of men.
They are people one meets, not people one cares for.
At my front door guests arrive:
They are people one sits with, not people one knows.
When I look up through the lattice, there are clouds and trees;
When I look down at the desktop, there are inkwells and depositions.
I eat, sleep, get up, work, sit in the garden to await the breeze;
But everywhere and all day there is an emptiness.
Beyond the city walls lives a hermit; with him I can be at ease,
For he can drink a flagon of wine, and recite
Long-lined poems while the sun sets,
Finding its way down among tangled winter branches.
Some afternoon, when the clerks have gone home,
At a season when the path by the river bank is dry,
I beg you, take up your staff of bamboo wood
And find your way to my door where the plum trees stand.
18
Heat and cold, dusk and dawn have crowded upon one another;
Suddenly it is many years since I arrived here.
Through my closed doors I hear nothing but the morning and evening drum.
From my upper windows I see the ships that come and go,
In vain the starlings tempt me with their song
To stray beneath the flowering trees;
In vain the green rushes lure me to sit by the pond.
There is one thing and one alone I never tire of:
Hearing the stream that trickles over stones
And splashes its way among rocks
In the shade of the dark wood.
19
The papers that lie on my desk are simple and few;
My house by the moat is leisurely and still.
In the autumn rain berries fall from the boughs;
At the evening bell the birds return to the wood.
A broken sunlight quivers over the south porch
Where I lie on my couch in idleness.
20
Men’s hearts love gold and silver;
Men’s mouths covet wine and flesh.
Not so the old man of the stream;
He drinks from his gourd and asks nothing more.
South of the stream he cuts firewood and grass,
North of the stream he has four walls and a roof.
Yearly he sows an acre of land,
In spring he drives two yellow calves.
In these things he finds repose;
Beyond these he has neither wish nor care.
By chance I met him at the water’s side;
He took me home and gave me tea.
He asked my rank and pay; doubting my tale
He laughed loud and long, saying,
‘High officials do not sleep in a barn.’
21
Can the single cup of wine we drank this morning
Have made my heart so glad?
This is a joy that comes only from within,
Which those who witness will never understand.
I have two brothers
And grieved bitterly that both were far away;
This spring, back through the high gorges of the river
I came to them safely, ten thousand leagues.
I am freed at last from the thoughts that grieved me,
As though a sword had cut a rope from my neck.
Limbs grow light when the heart has shed its care;
Suddenly I seem to be flying, for very joy,
To the sun-painted clouds and the sky.
22
My friend, drink your cup of wine,