This year there is war in An-hui,
In every place soldiers are rushing to arms.
Men of learning have been summoned to the Council Board;
Men of action are marching to the battle-line.
Only I, who have no talents at all,
Am left in the mountains to play with the pebbles of the stream.




[33] PROSE LETTER TO YÜAN CHĒN

[_A.D. 818_]


Night of the tenth day of the fourth month. Lo-t‘ien[1] says: O
Wei-chih,[2] Wei-chih, it is three years since I saw your face and
almost two years since I had a letter from you. Is man’s life so long
that he can afford such partings? Much less should hearts joined by glue
be set in bodies remote as Hu and Yüeh.[3] In promotion we could not be
together; and in failure we cannot forget each other. Snatched and
wrenched apart, separately each of us grows grey. O Wei-chih, what is to
be done? But this is the work of Heaven and there is no use in speaking
of it.

When I first arrived at Hsün-yang, Hsiung Ju-tēng[4] came with the
letter which you had written the year before, when you were so ill.
First you told me of the progress of your illness, next of your feelings
while you were ill and last you spoke of all our meetings and partings,
and of the occasion of your own difficulties and dangers. You had no