Tang dynasty Chinese poet (712–770) From Wikiquote, the free quote compendium
Du Fu (712 – 770) was a prominent Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty. Along with Li Bai (Li Po), he is frequently called the greatest of the Chinese poets.
國破山河在。
The nation is ruined, but mountains and rivers remain.
"Spring View" (trans. Gary Snyder), written in 755.
Variant translation (by David Hinton): The nation falls into ruins; rivers and mountains continue.
好雨知時節,當春乃發生。 隨風潛入夜,潤物細無聲。
Lovely rains, knowing their season, Always appear in spring. Entering night Secretly on the wind, they silently Bless things with such delicate abundance.
"Spring Night, Delighted by Rain"(《春夜喜雨》), in The Selected Poems of Tu Fu, trans. David Hinton (New Directions Publishing, 1989), p. 61
Variant translation:
Good rain is coming to our delight. Its early-spring timing is perfectly right. With wind it drifts in all through the night. Silently it's drenching everything in sight.
"Welcome Rain in a Spring Night", as translated by Ying Sun (2008)
無邊落木蕭蕭下,不盡長江滾滾來。
Wubian luomu xiaoxiao xia, Bu jin changjiang gungun lai.
The boundless forest sheds its leaves shower by shower; The endless river rolls its waves hour after hour.
"On the Heights", in Song of the Immortals: An Anthology of Classical Chinese Poetry, trans. Yuanchong Xu (Penguin Books, 1994), p. 60
It is almost as hard for friends to meet As for the morning and evening stars. Tonight then is a rare event, Joining, in the candlelight, Two men who were young not long ago But now are turning grey at the temples. To find that half our friends are dead Shocks us, burns our hearts with grief. We little guessed it would be twenty years Before I could visit you again. When I went away, you were still unmarried; But now these boys and girls in a row Are very kind to their father's old friend. They ask me where I have been on my journey; And then, when we have talked awhile, They bring and show me wines and dishes, Spring chives cut in the night-rain And brown rice cooked freshly a special way. My host proclaims it a festival, He urges me to drink ten cups— But what ten cups could make me as drunk As I always am with your love in my heart? Tomorrow the mountains will separate us; After tomorrow—who can say?
Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts. Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing To myself. Ragged mist settles In the spreading dusk. Snow skurries In the coiling wind. The wineglass Is spilled. The bottle is empty. The fire has gone out in the stove. Everywhere men speak in whispers. I brood on the uselessness of letters.
"Snow Storm" (對雪), as translated by Kenneth Rexroth in One Hundred Poems from the Chinese (1971), p. 6
Autumn, cloud blades on the horizon. The west wind blows from ten thousand miles. Dawn, in the clear morning air, Farmers busy after long rain. The desert trees shed their few green leaves. The mountain pears are tiny but ripe. A Tartar flute plays by the city gate. A single wild goose climbs into the void.
"Clear After Rain" (雨晴), as translated by Kenneth Rexroth in One Hundred Poems from the Chinese (1971), p. 16
好雨知時節
The good rain knows its season.
In: Kim Cheng Boey, Between Stations: Essays (2009), p. 102
I'm empty, here at the edge of the sky.
"Poem on Night" (trans. Jan W. Walls), in Sunflower Splendor: Three Thousand Years of Chinese Poetry, eds. Wu-chi Liu and Irving Yucheng Lo (1975), p. 139
Birds the more white, against green stream Blooms burst to flame, against blue hills I glance, the spring is gone again. What day, what day, can I go home?
"A Quatrain" (trans. Jerome P. Seaton), in Sunflower Splendor: Three Thousand Years of Chinese Poetry, eds. Wu-chi Liu and Irving Yucheng Lo (1975), p. 142
Nature ever calls people to live Along with her; why should I be lured By transient rank and honours?
"The Winding River", as translated by Rewi Alley in Du Fu: Selected Poems (1962), p. 54
Clear waters wind Around our village, With long summer days Full of loveliness; Fluttering in and out From the house beams The swallows play; Waterfowl disport together As everlasting lovers; ... What more could I wish for?
"The River by Our Village", as translated by Rewi Alley in Du Fu: Selected Poems (1962), p. 100
A visible darkness grows up mountain paths; I lodge by the river gate high in a study, Frail cloud on a cliff edge passing the night. The lonely moon topples amid the waves; Steady, one after another, a line of cranes in flight. Howling over the kill, wild dogs and wolves. No sleep for me. I worry over battles— I have no strength to right the universe.
"Spending the Night in a Tower by the River" (trans. Stephen Owen)
Tonight my wife must watch alone the full moon over Fu-zhou; I think sadly of my sons and daughters far away, too young to understand this separation or remember our life in Chang'an. In fragrant mist, her flowing hair is damp; In clear moonlight, her jade-white arms are cold. When will we lean at the open casement together while the moonlight dries our shining tears?
Within the vermilion gate, meats and wines go to waste While on the roadside lie the frozen bodies of the poor.
As quoted in Lin Yutang's The Vermilion Gate (1914)
無成涕作霖
I have achieved nothing and my tears fall in a downpour.
Translated by Stephen Owen
飯顆山頭逢杜甫,頭戴斗笠日卓午。 借問別來太瘦生,總為從前作詩苦。
I ran into Tu Fu by a Rice Grain Mountain, In a bamboo hat with the sun at high noon. Hasn't he got awfully thin since our parting? It must be the struggle of writing his poems.
Li Bai, "To Send to Tu Fu as a Joke" (戲贈杜甫), as translated by Elling O. Eide
When we were young, we have to memorize those texts from Tu Fu and others. And my grandmother used to carry me on my back and chant to me Chinese poems and sayings. The first kind of poetry I heard was Chinese poetry, and it ingrained in my ear, even though English is my main language. I can hardly read Chinese. The Chinese poem was ingrained in me when I was very young.
His poems do not as a rule come through very well in translation.
David Hawkes, A Little Primer of Tu Fu (1967), p. ix
my mother did the chant of Fa Mu Lan. I learned to talk by repeating those things. I never knew, until I got to college and was taking an Asian Lit class, that that was important poetry. I just thought it was my parents' tales. My brothers thought, oh, those are just village ditties. They sing that on the farm. And then I thought later, oh, Tu Fu and Li Po-this is important stuff.
Tu Fu is, in my opinion, and in the opinion of a majority of those qualified to speak, the greatest non-epic, non-dramatic poet who has survived in any language.
Kenneth Rexroth, One Hundred More Poems from the Chinese (1970), p. 128
Tu Fu was the master stylist of regulated verse, the poet of social protest, the confessional poet, the playful and casual wit, the panegyricist of the imperial order, the poet of everyday life, the poet of the visionary imagination. He was the poet who used colloquial and informal expressions with greater freedom than any of his contemporaries; he was the poet who experimented most boldly with densely artificial poetic diction; he was the most learned poet in recondite allusion and a sense of the historicity of language. One function of literary history is to account for a poet’s identity; Tu Fu’s poetry defies such reduction: the only aspect that can be emphasized without distorting his work as a whole is the very fact of its multiplicity.
Stephen Owen, The Great Age of Chinese Poetry (1981), as quoted in Daniel S. Burt's The Literature 100: A Ranking of the Most Influential Novelists, Playwrights, and Poets of All Time (2008), p. 104