Ode to the Plum Blossom

Wind and rain escorted Spring’s departure,

Flying snow welcomes Spring’s return.

On the ice-clad rock rising high and sheer

A flower blooms sweet and fair.

Sweet and fair, she craves not Spring for herself alone, To be the harbinger of Spring she is content.

When the mountain flowers are in full bloom

She will smile mingling in their midst.

Outside the post-house, beside the broken bridge, Alone, deserted, a flower blooms.

Saddened by her solitude in the falling dusk,

She is now assailed by wind and rain.

Let other flowers be envious!

She craves not Spring for herself alone.

Her petals may be ground in the mud,

But her fragrance will endure

Mao Zedong

Changsha

Alone I stand in the autumn cold

On the tip of Orange Island,

The Hsiang flowing northward;

I see a thousand hills crimsoned through

By their serried woods deep-dyed,

And a hundred barges vying

Over crystal blue waters.

Eagles cleave the air,

Fish glide in the limpid deep;

Under freezing skies a million creatures contend in freedom. Brooding over this immensity,

I ask, on this boundless land

Who rules over man’s destiny?

I was here with a throng of companions,

Vivid yet those crowded months and years. Young we were, schoolmates,

At life’s full flowering;

Filled with student enthusiasm

Boldly we cast all restraints aside.

Pointing to our mountains and rivers,

Setting people afire with our words,

We counted the mighty no more than muck. Remember still

How, venturing midstream, we struck the waters And waves stayed the speeding boats?

Mao Zedong

Snow

North country scene:

A hundred leagues locked in ice,

A thousand leagues of whirling snow.

Both sides of the Great Wall

One single white immensity.

The Yellow River’s swift current

Is stilled from end to end.

The mountains dance like silver snakes

And the highlands charge like wax-hued elephants, Vying with heaven in stature.

On a fine day, the land,

Clad in white, adorned in red,

Grows more enchanting.

This land so rich in beauty

Has made countless heroes bow in homage. But alas! Chin Shih-huang and Han Wu-ti Were lacking in literary grace,

And Tang Tai-tsung and Sung Tai-tsu

Had little poetry in their souls;

And Genghis Khan,

Proud Son of Heaven for a day,

Knew only shooting eagles, bow outstretched All are past and gone!

For truly great men

Look to this age alone.