River Imagery in Ancient Chinese Poetry

Riverside Immortal Tune

Yang Shen (Ming Dynasty)

The Yangtze flows, unending, eastward tide,
Its foaming waves have drowned the heroes’ pride.
Right and wrong, success and loss,
Turn to emptiness as swift as frost.
Yet the green hills stand, unchanged through years,
While sunset glows through countless shifting spheres.

On river isles, old fishers, woodmen stay,
Long used to autumn moons and springtime’s sway.
With rustic wine, old friends in laughter meet,
And all the tales of ages,
Fade to jest, in talk so sweet.

Spring River, Flower, Moon, Night

Zhang Ruoxu (Tang Dynasty)

The spring tide of the river merges with the sea,
And from the sea, the bright moon rises with the tide.
Shimmering light follows the waves for ten thousand li,
Where along the spring river is the moon not bright?

The river winds around fragrant fields,
The moonlight bathes flowering woods like scattered frost.
In empty sky, frost seems to drift unseen,
On sandy islets, white grains vanish from sight.

River and sky share one pure hue,
A solitary moon-wheel hangs radiant in the void.
Who first by the river saw this moon?
What year did the river’s moon first shine on man?

Generation after generation, life flows without end,
But year by year the river moon looks the same.
For whom does the river moon wait, none can tell—
Only the endless river sends away its waters.

A lone white cloud drifts, drifting without rest,
By the maple shore, grief cannot be borne.
Whose boatman roams tonight on the river?
Whose tower longs beneath the bright moon?

The moon lingers by the tower with pity,
It must shine upon the dressing mirror of the parted one.
Behind jade doors the curtain cannot roll it away,
On pounding boards it brushes and returns again.

At this moment we gaze, but cannot hear each other,
Would that I could follow moonlight’s flow to you.
Wild geese fly long, yet light cannot reach them,
Fish and dragons dive, their leaps leaving patterns in the waves.

Last night in a tranquil pool, I dreamed of falling blossoms—
Pity that mid-spring I do not return home.
The river carries spring, near its end, away,
The sinking moon leans westward over the river isles.

The slanting moon sinks, veiled in sea mists,
From Jieshi to Xiao-Xiang, endless is the road.
Who knows how many ride the moon homeward?
The falling moon stirs longing through all the river trees.

Mooring at Beigu Mountain

Wang Wan (Tang Dynasty)

Beyond the green hills stretches the traveler’s road,
Before the boat, clear waters flow.
The tide lies level, the banks grow wide,
The wind is fair, a lone sail flies.

From sea, the sun is born of lingering night,
On river, spring arrives as the old year dies.
Where shall my letter from home be delivered?
With homing geese, toward Luoyang skies.

If the Yellow River never ceases,
my longing for you will last until my hair turns white.

— Li Bai (Tang Dynasty), “Sending Off Wei Wan of Wangwu Mountain as He Returns to Wangwu, with Preface”

Climbing High

Du Fu (Tang Dynasty)

The wind is fierce, the sky is vast, gibbons cry in grief,
On islets clear, sands gleam white, birds wheel and return.
Boundless falling leaves rustle down without end,
The endless Yangtze rolls on, surging evermore.

Through ten thousand miles of autumn, sorrow marks my exile,
In a hundred years of illness, I climb the terrace alone.
In hardship, I bitterly resent the frosted hair at my temples,
In decline, I have just set aside my cup of cloudy wine.

Bring in the Wine

Li Bai (Tang Dynasty)

Have you not seen, the Yellow River’s waters come from Heaven,
Rushing to the sea, never to return?
Have you not seen, in the high hall a bright mirror grieves for white hair—
At dawn like black silk, by dusk turned to snow?

While life is full, one must seize joy to the utmost,
Let not the golden goblet face the moon empty.
Heaven gave me talents—they must have their use;
Wealth spent in thousands, it comes back again.

Roast the lamb, slaughter the ox, let us delight;
We must drink three hundred cups in one sitting!
Master Cen, Scholar Danqiu—bring in the wine! Let cups not pause!
I will sing you a song,
Lend me your ears and listen well.

Bells and drums, jade dishes—these count for nothing;
Only wish to be drunk forever, never to wake.
Since ancient times, sages and worthies have all been lonely,
Only the drinkers leave behind their names.

In former days Prince Chen feasted at Pingle Palace,
A cask of ten thousand coins of wine, reveling in delight.
Why say, dear host, that money is short?
Straight go and buy wine, let us drink it together.

My fine dappled horse, my fur coat worth a thousand gold—
Call the boy, let him take them and trade for good wine,
So that together with you, we may drown eternal sorrow!

Ballad of Liang Garden

Li Bai (Tang Dynasty)

I drifted down the Yellow River toward the imperial court,
With sails unfurled, advancing through waves that touched the mountains.
Heaven long, waters wide—I tired of distant journeys,
So I turned to visit the old Platform grounds.

As a guest at the Platform, thoughts of sorrow pressed;
Facing wine, I composed the Song of Liang Garden.
I recalled Ruan Gong’s chant at Pond of Reeds,
And followed with a verse: “Green waters raise vast waves.”

Mighty billows surged, obscuring the homeland of old;
The road back west lay far—how could return be gained?
Life follows fate, why linger in grief?
Better to drink fine wine and climb high towers.

A flat-capped servant waved his great fan,
In May’s heat it felt as cool as autumn.
Jade plates of bayberries were set before me,
Wu salt gleamed white as snow, like blossoms.

Take the salt, lift the cup—drink deep!
Do not imitate Boyi and Shuqi in their cold purity.
Once the noble Lord Xinling was revered in grandeur,
Now men plow and sow on Lord Xinling’s tomb.

The desolate city reflects the moon over green hills,
Ancient trees vanish into Cangwu’s drifting clouds.
Where are the palaces of King Liang now?
Mei and Ma poets returned first, and would not wait.

Dance shadows and songs once scattered over green ponds—
Now only Bian waters remain, flowing east to sea.
Brooding on these things, my tears soaked my robe;
Though I bought drunkenness with gold, I could not return home.

Calling “five whites,” casting dice of six,
Dividing into teams, wagering wine, in revelry we chased the sun.
I sing and chant, my thoughts wander far;
Like Zhou Gong resting high on Eastern Mountain,
Should I rise to save the world, it is not yet too late.