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Alone Looking For Blossoms Along The River

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.


Author:  Tu Fu, a Chinese poet (born 712 – died 770).

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