Snow Storm

Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts.
Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing
To myself. Ragged mist settles
In the spreading dusk. Snow skurries
In the coiling wind. The wineglass
Is spilled. The bottle is empty.
The fire has gone out in the stove.
Everywhere men speak in whispers.
I brood on the uselessness of letters.

Tu Fu, translated by Kenneth Rexroth from his anthology, “One Hundred Poems from the Chinese” Online text of this anthology is here, but you have to give them your email address.