Since Life is but a Dream, Why toil to no avail?
To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring.
I bow in reverence to the white cloud.
The birds have vanished into the sky, and now the last cloud drains away. We sit together, the mountain and me, until only the mountain remains.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden; They hurt me. I grow older.
Beneath the blossoms with a pot of wine, No friends at hand, so I poured alone; I raised my cup to invite the moon, Turned to my shadow, and we became three.