The Return

To get out of this and go back home!

My fields and garden will be overgrown with weeds

I must go back.

It was my own doing that made my mind my body's slave

Why should I go on in melancholy and fonely grief?

I realize that there's no remedying the past

But I know that there's hope in the future.

After all I have not gone far on the wrong road

And I am aware that what I do today is right, yesterday wrong.

My boat rocks in the gentle breeze

Flap, fap, the wind blows my gown;

I ask a passerby about the road ahead,

Grudging the dimness of the light at dawn.

Then I catch sight of my cottage

Filled with joy I run.

The servant boy comes to welcome me

My little son waits at the door.

"The three paths are almost obliterated 

But pines and chrysanthemums are still here.

Leading the children by the hand I enter my house

Where there is a bottle filled with wine.

I draw the bottle to me and pour myself a cup;

Seeing the trees in the courtyard brings joy to my face.

I lean on the south window and let my pride expand,

I consider how casy it is to be content with a little space.

Every day I stroll in the garden for pleasure,

There is a gate there, but it is always shut.

Cane in hand I walk and rest

Occasionally raising my head to gaze into the distance.

The clouds aimlessly rise from the peaks,

The birds, weary offying, know it is time to come home.

As the sun's rays grow dim and disappear from view

I walk around a lonely pine tree, stroking it.

Back home again!

May my friendships be broken ofand my wanderings come to an end,

The world and I shall have nothing more to do with one another.

If I were again to go abroad, what should I seck?

Here I enjoy honest conversation with my family

And take pleasure in books and cither to dispel my worries.

The farmers tell me that now spring is here

There will be work to do in the west fields.

Sometimes I call for a covered cart

Sometimes I row a lonely boat

Following a deep gully through the still water

Or crossing the hill on a rugged path.

The trees put forth luxuriant foliage,

The spring begins to fow in a trickle.

I admire the seasonableness ofnature

And am moved to think that my life will come to its close.

It is all over-

So little time are we granted human form in the world!

Let us then follow the inclinations of the heart:

Where would we go that we are so agitated?

I have no desire for riches

And no expectation of Heaven.

Rather on some fine morning to walk alone

Now planting my staffto take up a hoe,

Or climbing the east hill and whistling long

Or composing verses beside the clear stream:

So I manage to accept my lot until the utimate homecoming.

Rejoicing in Heaven's command, what is there to doubt?