Li Po
On the Old Style: Moon's Tint
Moon's tint can't be swept away;
the traveler's grief, there's no way to say it.
White dew proclaims on Autumn robes;
fireflies flit above the grasses.
Sun and moon are in the end extinguished;
Heaven and Earth, the same, will rot away.
Cricket cries in the green pine tree;
he'll never see this tree grow old.
Potions of long life can only fool the vulgar;
the blind find all discernment hard.
You'll never live to be a thousand;
much anguish leads to early death.
Drink deep, and dwell within the cup.
Conceal yourself, your only treasure.

transl. by J.P. Seaton