field

Grasses tall enough
to touch a traveler’s sleeve—
a summer field.

Sōchō

the hill of hua-tzǔ

The birds fly away
into infinite space:
Over the whole mountain
returns the splendour of autumn.
Ascending and descending
Hua-tzǔ hill,
I feel
unbounded bewilderment and
lamentation.

The sun sets,
the wind rises among the pines.
Returning home,
there is a little dew upon the grass.
The reflection of the clouds
falls into the tracks of my shoes,
The blue of the mountains
touches my clothes.


Wang Wei
P’ei Ti