Poems about businessmen valuing profits 1. Poems about businessmen
1. -The Merchant by Wu Rong, a poet in the Tang Dynasty.
translation: A pole with a height of 1 feet swings with the wind and keeps working hard, so you can become a home anywhere in your life.
2. who, prizing money first, careless how he left her, had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea. -from the Tang Dynasty Bai Juyi's Pipa Trip/Pipa Introduction
Translation: Businessmen attach great importance to money and interests, and despise the separation of husband and wife, and often leave the pipa girl alone. In order to buy tea in Fuliang to make money, the pipa girl was left alone in Jiujiang.
3. since I married the merchant of Qutang, he has failed each day to keep his word. Had I thought how regular the tide is, I might rather have chosen a river-boy. -
Translation of Jiangnan Qu by Li Yi in Tang Dynasty: I really regret marrying a merchant woman in Qutang, who delays the meeting every day. If I had known the ebb and flow of the tide, I would have married a husband who made waves.
4. In spring, it is rainy on the river. Sail with drums and sail. Just come back in the autumn evening. Look at the boat leaving again. If you marry a husband, you are not married. It's a long bleak night. Love less, benefit more. Lang is as young as he is. Song dynasty: Jiang kai
translation: drizzle is floating on the river in spring, and the boat sails and drums to leave. The moonlit night in late autumn just returned, and the ship docked in a hurry and left again. Married husband seems not married, staying at the bleak night. Lust for profit and affection are thin, and youth is fleeting.
5. In the morning, I started to levy priests, and the guests mourned their hometown. Chickens crow in Maodian Moon, and people walk in Banqiao Frost. Mistletoe leaves fall on the mountain road, and orange flowers are on the wall of the post. Because of thinking about Duling Dream, the geese are full of returning to the pond. -
Translation from Wen Tingyun's Early Trip to Shangshan in the Tang Dynasty: Get up at dawn, and the bells of chariots and horses have shaken; Embark on a long journey, and the wanderer misses his hometown sadly. The chicken is loud and clear, and the thatched shop is bathed in the afterglow of xiao yue; Banqiao is filled with frost, and the guests should follow the footsteps first.
withered oak leaves are covered with wild roads in barren hills; Pale white bitter orange flowers bloom brightly at the mud wall of the post office. Recalling the beautiful scene of dreaming of Duling last night, flocks of ducks and geese were playing in the lake pond on the shore.
2. Li Bai's Poems What is the whole poem of who, prizing money first, careless how he left her
It's Bai Juyi's Pipa
I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River, where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn.
I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat, and we raised our cups and wished to drink-but, alas, there was no music.
for all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other, when the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon.
we had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water, host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way.
we followed where the melody led and asked the player's name, the sound broke off...then reluctantly she answered.
we moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us, summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet.
yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us, still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar.
...She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings, we could feel what she was feeling, even before she played.
each string a meditation, each note a deep thought, as if she were telling us the ache of her whole life.
she knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music, talk endlessly.
take it easy, first the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones.
the large strings hummed like rain, the small strings whispered like a secret.
hummed, whispered-and then were intermingled, like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
The flowers of Guan Ying are slippery, and the spring water flows down the beach.
by the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken, let's never stop talking.
into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament, told even more in silence than they had told in sound.
a silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water, and out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote.
and, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke, and all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk.
there was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west, and we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart.
thoughtfully put it in the strings, straighten your clothes and collect customers.
told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital, living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads.
and had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen, with her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians.
You should always teach the good before serving, her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers.
how noble youths of Wuling had lavishly competed, and numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song.
and skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine, China.
season after season, joy had followed joy, autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding.
My younger brother joined the army and my aunt died, and evenings went and evenings came, and her beauty faded.
with ever fewer chariots and horses at her door, so that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant.
who, prizing money first, careless how he left her, had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea.
Go to Laijiangkou to watch the boat in the air, and sail around the boat in the bright moon and cold water.
and sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs, and be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears.
her very first guitar-note had started me sighing, now, having heard her story, I was sadder still.
we are both unhappy -- to the sky's end, we meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter?.
I came, a year ago, away from the capital, and am now a sick exile here in Jiujiang.
and so remote is Jiujiang that I have heard no music, neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year.
my quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp, Huanglu bitter bamboo was born around the house.
and what is to be heard here, morning and evening?, the bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes.
on flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights, I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone.
of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes? But they are crude and-strident, and grate on my ears.
and tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar, I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairymusic.
do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again., and I will write a long song concerning a guitar..
...Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment, then sat again to her strings-and they sounded even sadder.
although the tunes were different from those she had played before, the feasters, all listening, covered their faces.
but who of them all was crying the most?, this Jiujiang official. My blue sleeve was wet.