The living is a passing traveler; The dead, a man come home.

To wash and rinse our souls of their age-old sorrows,We drained a hundred jugs of wine.A splendid night it was . . . .In the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,But at last drunkenness overtook us;And we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,The earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet

Since Life is but a Dream, Why toil to no avail?

To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring.

The living is a passing traveler; The dead, a man come home.

The world is like a great empty dream. Why should one toil away one's life?

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain; I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care. As the peach-blossom flows down stream and is gone into the unknown, I have a world apart that is not among men.