If the Fleeting World is but a long dream, it does not matter whether one is young or old.

Two monks sit facing, playing chess on the mountain, The bamboo shadow on the board is dark and clear. Not a person sees the bamboo's shadow, One sometimes hears the pieces being moved.

A strip of water's spread in the setting sun, Half the river's emerald, half is red. I love the third night of the ninth month, The dew is like a pearl the moon like a bow.

Heat lingers As days are still long Early mornings are cool While autumn is still young. Dew on the lotus Scatters pure perfume Wind on the bamboos Gives off a gentle tinkling. I am idle and lonely, Lying down all day, Sick and decayed No one asks for me Thin dusk before my gates, Cassia blossoms inch deep.

A little child paddles a little boat, Drifting about, and picking white lotuses. He does not know how to hide his tracks, And duckweed's opened up along his path.

Autumn clouds, vague and obscure The evening, lonely and chill. I felt the dampness on my garments, But saw no spot, and heard no sound of rain.

Fumes of wine shorten the long road.