Alone, Looking For Blossoms Along The River

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.