Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River by Tu Fu
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable, And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy. I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.
A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside, I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring. Poems, wine -- even this profusely driven, I endure. Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.
A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet, And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white! Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place: With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage.
Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms, I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more. To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful Dancing girls to embroidered mats -- who could bear it?
East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave, Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes. In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless, Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?
At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths: Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down. And butterflies linger playfully -- an unbroken Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.
I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid, Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous. And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk Things over, little buds ---open delicately, sparingly.