Peach blossoms line the banks, swallows fly;
The spring river swells, mandarin fish grow fat.
A hundred feet of silk line in misty waves so wide,
At midnight, clappers sound, I return with the moon aboard.
A leaf-like skiff lies across the sandy shore,
Drunk with the catch, I lie in the east wind's core.
When sobered amidst the deep green willows' shade,
Half the river's tide has ebbed, sky like water laid.
In May, coolness spreads over miles of azure waves;
A stream of brocade red, lotus fragrance saves.
In green straw cloak and hat, I hear the sparse rain's call,
Old trees and lingering mist embrace the sunset's pall.
A wild boat's tiny fire flickers through the night,
A flute clears in the wind, the vast sky in sight.
With no fish, no wine, I'll simply turn back home,
And lie sparse 'neath the awning, where the bright moon will roam.
The west wind blows for miles, frosts my temples grey,
South and north of the river, I age far away.
Rustling leaves of parasol trees on either shore,
Vast and vague, half the stream with reeds and rushes galore.
Amid the soft oar's sound, hills and waters gleam green,
A single thread could buy a golden house, it seems.
Gulls and birds on the sand, harbor no suspicion, please,
No worldly strife reaches this clear river's melodies.
Reeds broken, lotuses withered, the man's not back,
Waves turn cold, frost falls, wild geese begin their track.
Unaware how seasons change with each passing scene,
I break a plum branch, descend to the fishing ledge serene.
Clear songs arise from green hills on every side,
A few sand gulls take flight where sky and earth divide.
Let the boatman stay drunk as long as he might,
When sober, I'll fish alone in cold river snow's white.