Ballad Of The Old Cypress

In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches

are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty

spans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored top

rises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long since

paid their debt to time; but the tree continues to be cherished among men. When

the clouds come, continuous vapors link it with the mists of the long Wu

Gorge; and when the moon appears, the cypress tree shares the chill of the

Snowy Mountains' whiteness.

        I remember a year or so ago, where the road wound east round my Brocade

River pavilion, the First Ruler and Chu-ko Liang shared the same shrine. There,

too, were towering cypresses, on the ancient plain outside the city. The paint-

work of the temple's dark interior gleamed dully through derelict doors and

windows. But this cypress here, though it holds its ground well, clinging with

wide-encompassing, snake-like hold, yet, because of its lonely height rising

into the gloom of the sky, meets much of the wind's fierce blast. Nothing but

the power of Divine Providence could have kept it standing for so long; its

straightness must be the work of the Creator himself! If a great hall had

collapsed and beams for it were needed, ten thousand oxen might turn their

heads inquiringly to look at such a mountain of a load. But it is already

marvel enough to astonish the world, without any need to undergo a craftsman's

embellishing. It has never refused the axe: there is simply no one who could

carry it away if it were felled. Its bitter heart has not escaped the ants; but

there are always phoenixes roosting in its scented leaves. Men of ambition, and

you who dwell unseen, do not cry out in despair! From of old the really great

has never been found a use for.

Another Translation:

In front of K'ung-ming Shrine

stands an old cypress,

With branches like green bronze

and roots like granite;

Its hoary bark, far round,

glistens with raindrops,

And blueblack hues, high up,

blend in with Heaven's:

Long ago Statesman, King

kept Time's appointment,

But still this standing tree has men's devotion;

United with the mists

of ghostly gorges,

Through which the moon brings cold

from snowy mountains.

(I recall near my hut

on Brocade River

Another Shrine is shared by

King and Statesman

On civil, ancient plains

with stately cypress:

The paint there now is dim,

windows shutterless. . .)

Wide, wide though writhing roots

maintain its station,

Far, far in lonely heights,

many's the tempest

When its hold is the strength

of Divine Wisdom

And straightness by the work of the Creator. . .

Yet if a crumbling Hall

needed a rooftree, Yoked herds would, turning heads,

balk at this mountain:

By art still unexposed all have admired it;

But axe though not refused,

who could transport it?

How can its bitter core deny ants lodging,

All the while scented boughs

give Phoenix housing?

Oh, ambitious unknowns,

sigh no more sadly:

Using timber as big

was never easy!

This poem was recited by the Poet Laureate of the United States Robert Pinsky to commemorate President Clinton's visit to China on PBS July 1998.