Share:
  Guess poet | Poets | Poets timeline | Isles | Contacts

Du Fu - Ballad Of The Old CypressDu Fu - Ballad Of The Old Cypress
Work rating: Medium


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!
Source

The script ran 0.001 seconds.