The thin, trickling water seems like flowing tears, and as the sun sets, I feel sorrowful by the small bridge. The withered willow's leaves are gone, leaving only bare branches, yet they are still buffeted ceaselessly by the frosty wind. — Bai Juyi, 'Willow by the Small Bridge'
Pour me another cup of wine to drink, and let us tap the plate with our chopsticks and sing together. — Bai Juyi, 'Drunk, to Liu the Twenty-Eighth Envoy'
Half a piece of red silk and one zhang of gauze, tied to the ox's head to pay for the charcoal.
I recall when you were a fledgling, soaring high and leaving your mother behind. You should now know the worries your parents felt then, just as I do now. — Bai Juyi, 'Swallow Poem to Old Man Liu'
In the fourth month, earthly flowers are all gone, but the peonies in the mountain temple are just blooming. I have long regretted that spring is gone and cannot be found, not knowing that it had turned and come here.
Morning comes and evening goes, stars and frost change, yin gloom and yang ease pull the seasons. Autumn frost can spoil the colors of all things, and winter days in the four seasons are the most withering. Smoke and waves half-reveal new sandbars, flocks of birds fly in the sky before snow. As evening falls, I gaze north and south in dimness, my travel thoughts boundless in the bleakness. — Bai Juyi, 'Late-Year Traveler's View'
The war drums of Yuyang shook the earth, startling the Rainbow Skirt and Feather Clothe melody. The nine-gated palace gates rose in dust and smoke, and thousands of chariots and horses headed southwest.
In Zhaoyang Palace, love and affection were cut off; in the Penglai Palace, days and months seemed long. Looking back down at the human world, I saw no Chang'an, only dust and mist.
I only used old mementos to express deep affection, sending a gold hairpin and a gilded box. The hairpin was left with one strand and one fan; the gold box was split, and the gilded pin separated.
The water spring was cold and harsh, the strings frozen and silent, silence absolute with no sound for a moment. A special melancholy and hidden resentment arose; at this moment, silence was more eloquent than sound.
'Tears wet my silk handkerchief, dreams unfulfilled; late at night, the music of the front hall plays. My beauty is not yet old, yet favor has been cut; leaning against the perfumed cage, I sit until dawn. Pity that beauty is always doomed; most heartless is the imperial house.' — Bai Juyi, 'Song of the Inner Palace'
