Seeing off Chen Zhangfu

Seeing off Chen Zhangfu

In the fourth month, south winds blow and the barley turns yellow;

The date blossoms have not yet fallen, the shade of the pagoda trees grows long.

Parting from the green hills in the morning, I see them again by evening;

My horse neighs as I leave the gate, longing for my old homeland.

Master Chen, how open and upright you stand in the world—

Whiskered like a dragon, brows like a tiger, and a great forehead besides.

Within your belly you store ten thousand volumes of books,

Yet you refuse to bow your head among the common weeds.

At the East Gate you buy wine and drink with us,

Your heart treats all matters as lightly as a feather.

You lie drunk, unaware that the white sun has set,

Sometimes gazing idly at a lone cloud hanging high.

The long river's waves stretch darkly to meet the sky,

At the ferry crossing the boat is stopped—you cannot cross.

The traveler from Zheng has not yet reached his home,

The wanderer from Sighs from Luoyang sighs in vain.

I hear that many acquaintances remain in your old village—

Since you left office just yesterday, how fares it now?