<Header>
<Author: 杜甫>
<Title: 贈衛八處士>
<Format: 格式不明>
<Year: 1967>
<BookName: ONE HUNDRED AND ONE CHINESE POEMS>
<Translator: SHIH SHUN LIU>
<TranslatedTitle: To Wei the Eighth, a Retired Scholar>
<BookPage: 43>
<UsedPage: 1>
<Feature: 1, 4>
<End Header>
<Poem>
人生不相見，
動如參與商。
今夕復何夕，
共此燈燭光。
少壯能幾時，
鬢髮各已蒼。
訪舊半爲鬼，
驚呼熱中腸。
焉知二十載，
重上君子堂。
昔別君未婚，
兒女忽成行。
怡然敬父執，
問我來何方。
問荅乃未已，
兒女羅酒漿。
夜雨剪春韭，
新炊間黃粱。
主稱會面難，
一舉累十觴。
十觴亦不醉，
感子故意長。
明日隔山岳，
世事兩茫茫。
<End Poem>
<Translation>
WHEN people do not see one another,
They are like the constellations Shên and Shang.
What a night is this, 
when we share the candlelight?
How long can you live on?
Our temples have all become gray;
Half of our old friends are ghosts,
But to see you again makes me cry out aloud, With an unquiet warmth in my heart.
How could I know that after twenty years
I would again be here in your home?
When we parted you were not yet married,
But now of a sudden you have rows of children.
They greet their father's friend joyfully
And ask where I come from.
Before the questions and the answers are over,
They bring us goblets of wine.
They cut spring scallions in the rain,
To go with the newly boiled rice and yellow millet.
Saying that our meeting was something rare,
You raised the goblet and drank ten draughts with me.
Even ten cups did not intoxicate me
But made me grateful for your loving warmth.
Tomorrow the mountains will again divide us,
And neither will know what the future holds in store.
<End Translation>
<Formatted Translation>
WHEN people do not see one another,
They are like the constellations Shên and Shang.
What a night is this, 
when we share the candlelight?
How long can you live on?
Our temples have all become gray;
Half of our old friends are ghosts,
But to see you again makes me cry out aloud, with an unquiet warmth in my heart.
How could I know that after twenty years
I would again be here in your home?
When we parted you were not yet married,
But now of a sudden you have rows of children.
They greet their father's friend joyfully
And ask where I come from.
Before the questions and the answers are over,
They bring us goblets of wine.
They cut spring scallions in the rain,
To go with the newly boiled rice and yellow millet.
Saying that our meeting was something rare,
You raised the goblet and drank ten draughts with me.
Even ten cups did not intoxicate me
But made me grateful for your loving warmth.
Tomorrow the mountains will again divide us,
And neither will know what the future holds in store.
<End Formatted Translation>