Yüan Hung-too

Old pine trees, their shaggy manes     twirled in a dance by the wind;

row on row of tombs, one wisp of smoke     rising from nowhere.

The lords and princes who once lived     along Bronze Camel Avenue

have become the dust that settles on the traveler's face,

The white poplar on top of the mountain     has turned into an old woman

who spends each night in the fields,     chasing away tigers of stone,

Officials come to this place, face north     toward the Mausoleum of Longevity,