Искусствоед
Li Po
On the Old Style: I climb high
I climb high, to gaze upon the see,
Heaven and Earth, so vast, so vast.
Frost clothes all things in Autumn.
Winds waft the broad wastes cold.
Glory, splendor: an eastward-flowing stream,
this world's affairs, its waves.
White sun covered, its dying rays,
the floating clouds, no resting place.
In lofty wu-t'ung trees nest lowly finches.
Down among the thorny brush the Phoenix
perches.
All that's left, to go home again.
Hand on my sword I sing "The Going's Hard."
transl. by J.P. Seaton
On the Old Style: I climb high
I climb high, to gaze upon the see,
Heaven and Earth, so vast, so vast.
Frost clothes all things in Autumn.
Winds waft the broad wastes cold.
Glory, splendor: an eastward-flowing stream,
this world's affairs, its waves.
White sun covered, its dying rays,
the floating clouds, no resting place.
In lofty wu-t'ung trees nest lowly finches.
Down among the thorny brush the Phoenix
perches.
All that's left, to go home again.
Hand on my sword I sing "The Going's Hard."
transl. by J.P. Seaton