Little buds, open delicately and sparingly

I cannot tell you the sorrow of riverside blossoms. And there is nobody to complain to. I am going half-crazy. I look up for my southern neighbor. He is dead. He drank wine for ten years. His bed is now empty.
There is a full frenzy of blossoming flowers along the riverside. I stroll fearing that the spring is coming soon. I can endure poems and heavy drinking of wine. Death, for an old white haired man like me, I hope, can wait.

The river is flowing deep. The bamboo houses along the river look so beautiful among the glaring red and white blossoms. Among the vociferous glories of the spring, I too have my place: a glass of white wine, saying goodbye to the affairs of life.

East of the river, before Abbot Huang’s grave, the gentle spring breeze is blowing in frail splendor. In this crush of peach flowers falling everywhere, I do not know which ones I like the most, the light red or the dark ones.

At Madame Huang’s house, thousands, tens of thousands of flowers hanging from the tree branches, falling and filling the paths. The butterflies linger there playfully and the orioles dance and sing ceaselessly.

I love blossoms. I feel like dying seeing them disappearing impulsively of old age. They fall every where by the branchful. Little buds, let’s talk things over: open delicately and sparingly.


from a translation of the original poem by Tu Fu (712-770)
http://www.emule.com/poetry/?page=poem&poem=656