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You ask why I make my home n the mountain forest, and I smile, and am silent, and even my soul remains quiet: it lives in the other world which no one owns. The peach trees blossom, The water flows.

Li Bai

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Li Bai
Calligrapher
Lyricist
Poet
Writer
Suiye
Li Shier
Li Po
Li Taibai
Taibai
Li Bo
Li Bei
Water
Smile
Peach
Lives
Silent
Peaches
Home
Flow
Owns
Soul
Mountain
Blossom
Even
Remains
Flows
Make
Quiet
Forest
World
Tree
Forests
Asks
Trees

More quotes by Li Bai

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In the battlefield men grapple each other and die The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven, While ravens and kites peck at human entrails, Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees.
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To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring.
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Forever and forever and forever
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From some home a jade flute sends dark notes drifting, Scattering on the spring wind that fills Lo-yang. Tonight, if we should hear the willow-breaking song, Who could help but long for the gardens of home?
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The living is a passing traveler The dead, a man come home.
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I am asked why I live in the green mountains I smile but reply not, for my heart is at rest. The flowing waters carry the image of the peach blossoms far, far away there is an earth, there is a heaven, unknown to men.
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I bow in reverence to the white cloud.
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From the walls of Baidi high in the coloured dawn To Jiangling by night-fall is three hundred miles, Yet monkeys are still calling on both banks behind me To my boat these ten thousand mountains away.
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The world is like a great empty dream. Why should one toil away one's life?
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All the birds have flown up and gone A lonely cloud floats leisurely by. We never tire of looking at each other - Only the mountain and I.
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In a universe animated by the interaction of yin (female) and yang (male) energies, the moon was literally yin visible. Indeed, it was the very germ or source of yin, and the sun was its yang counterpart.
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Since Life is but a Dream, Why toil to no avail?
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To wash and rinse our souls of their age-old sorrows,We drained a hundred jugs of wine.A splendid night it was . . . .In the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,But at last drunkenness overtook usAnd we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,The earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet
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Gently I stir a white feather fan, With open shirt sitting in a green wood. I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone A wind from the pine-tree trickles on my bare head.
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The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden They hurt me. I grow older.
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Growing older, I love only quietness: who need be concerned with the things of this world? Looking back, what better plan than this: returning to the grove.
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