Time passes, winter and spring fade;
cold and heat suddenly flow and change.
My bride has returned to the sad underworld,
a heavy place, forever shut off by gloom.
Private wishes-- who can follow them?
Staying on here-- how can that help me?
I should respect the court orders,
turn my heart back to my early service.
When I look at our cottage, I think of her in it.
The women's rooms are empty of her.
Pen and ink still hold her traces.
The floating fragrance is not yet gone,
her portrait still hangs on the screen
almost as if she is still there.
I come back uneasy, startled, sad.
It's like birds in the northern forest,
settled as a pair, one early left alone.
It's like flatfish roaming the river,
one eye gone on the way.
The spring wind comes bringing a fissure of fate
At dawn the water drips off the eaves
In my bedroom-- how can I forget those times?
My drowning grief overflows my days.
How much time will there be like this?
I could bang on a pot, like Zhuangzi.
--Chinese poet Pan Yue 潘岳 (247-300) was unusual for his time in writing publicly about his wife's death. This is my translation. You can read Kenneth Rexroth's translation of the same poem here.
悼亡诗三首
荏苒冬春谢。寒暑忽流易。
之子归穷泉。重壤永幽隔。
私怀谁克从。淹留亦何益。
僶俛恭朝命。回心反初役。
望庐思其人。入室想所历。
帏屏无髣髴。翰墨有余迹。
流芳未及歇。遗挂犹在壁。
怅怳如或存。回遑忡惊惕。
如彼翰林鸟。双栖一朝只。
如彼游川鱼。比目中路析。
春风缘隟来。晨溜承檐滴。
寝息何时忘。沉忧日盈积。
庶几有时衰。庄缶犹可击。
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