山中與裴迪秀才書

王維【唐】

近臘月下，景氣和暢，故山殊可過。足下方溫經，猥不敢相煩。輒便往山中，憩感配寺，與山僧飯訖而去。北涉元灞，清月映郭。夜登華子岡，輞水淪漣，與月上下。寒山遠火，明滅林外。深巷寒犬，吠聲如豹。材墟夜舂，複與疏鍾相間。此時獨坐，僮仆靜默，多思曩昔，攜手賦詩，步仄逕，臨清流也。當待春中，草木蔓發，春山可望，輕儵shū同“倏”hastily, suddenly, abruptly出水，白鷗矯翼，露濕青皋，麥隴朝雊。斯之不遠，儻能從我遊乎？非子天機清妙者，豈能以此不急之務相邀？然是中有深趣矣，無忽！因馱黃蘖人往，不一。山中人王維白。

[2] PROSE LETTER

To the Bachelor-of-Arts P‘ei Ti

WANG WEI (A.D. 699-759)

Of late during the sacrificial month, the weather has been calm and clear, and I might easily have crossed the mountain. But I knew that you were conning the classics and did not dare disturb you. So I roamed about the mountain-side, rested at the Kan-p‘ei Temple, dined with the mountain priests, and, after dinner, came home again. Going north-wards, I crossed the Yüan-pa, over whose waters the unclouded moon shone with dazzling rim. When night was far advanced, I mounted Hua-tzŭ's Hill and saw the moonlight tossed up and thrown down by the jostling waves of Wang River. On the wintry mountain distant lights twinkled and vanished; in some deep lane beyond the forest a dog barked at the cold, with a cry as fierce as a wolf's. The sound of villagers grinding their corn at night filled the gaps between the slow chiming of a distant bell. Now I am sitting alone. I listen, but cannot hear my grooms and servants move or speak. I think much of old days: how hand in hand, composing poems as we went, we walked down twisting paths to the banks of clear streams. We must wait for Spring to come: till the grasses sprout and the trees bloom. Then wandering together in the spring hills we shall see the trout leap lightly from the stream, the white gulls stretch their wings, the dew fall on the green moss. And in the morning we shall hear the cry of curlews in the barley-fields.

It is not long to wait. Shall you be with me then? Did I not know the natural subtlety of your intelligence, I would not dare address to you so remote an invitation. You will understand that a deep feeling dictates this course.

Written without disrespect by Wang Wei, a dweller in the mountains.