"Ah, how short a time it is that we are here! Why then not set our hearts
at rest, ceasing to trouble whether we remain or go? What boots it
to wear out the soul with anxious thoughts? I want not wealth;
I want not power: heaven is beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll
through the bright hours as they pass, in my garden among my flowers,
or I will mount the hill and sing my song, or weave my verse
beside the limpid brook. Thus will I work out my allotted span,
content with the appointments of Fate, my spirit free from care."*
For him enjoyment and scarcely happiness is the thing.
And although many of his word-pictures are not lacking in charm or colour,
they have but little significance beyond them. They are essentially
the art works of an older school than that of the Seven Sages. But we must
have due regard for them, for they only miss greatness by a little,
and remind us of the faint threnodies that stir in the throats
of bird musicians upon the dawn.

--
* Giles, `Chinese Literature', p. 130.
--




The Poets of the T`ang Dynasty



At last the golden age of Chinese poetry is at hand.
Call the roll of these three hundred eventful years,