Grass on the Ancient Plain

Lines 1–2: a cycle, not a single spring

離離 describes abundant, spreading growth. The two characters are one descriptive expression, not two separate events; the gloss therefore keeps the compound together. 一歲一枯榮 compresses a whole cycle of withering and renewal into five syllables. The translation makes that cycle explicit. The grass is flourishing now, but the poem already includes its loss.

Lines 3–4: what the fire leaves

燒不盡 means the fire cannot burn it completely away. The poem does not claim that blades of grass are immune to heat. The succeeding spring shows that the life of the growth persists. “Again” belongs to 又: fire and wind are opposing actions, but the yearly cycle continues through them.

These two lines are often remembered by themselves as an image of endurance. That reading is available, but it is incomplete. The poem has not yet said goodbye.

Lines 5–6: vegetation crosses human boundaries

芳 can stand for fragrant plants or their growth. It need not mean a perfume floating independently through the air. Here it spreads as far as the eye follows the old road. 翠 is green color used as a thing: the green reaches the deserted town.

The middle couplet puts 古道, an old road, beside 荒城, an abandoned city. Both were made for human movement or dwelling; both are being joined by plants. The road also prepares for the departure in the next line. Nature does more than offer a moral example.

Lines 7–8: restoring the farewell

王孫 literally names a prince’s descendant, but it can address a gentleman or friend. Nothing here establishes a royal genealogy for the departing person. The phrase also recalls the departing 王孫 and growing spring grass of “Summoning the Recluse” in the Chu ci tradition.

萋萋 returns to the abundant growth of 離離 at the beginning. Now that abundance carries 別情, the feeling of parting. The translation does not add tears or a promise of reunion. It lets the landscape acquire an emotional meaning at the end.

A familiar classroom excerpt stops at line 4 and is called “Grass.” We print all eight lines because cutting the last four removes the ancient road, the town, the traveler, and the reason 送別 appears in the title.

This is a five-character lüshi: eight lines, with two balanced middle couplets. In lines 3–4, 野火 answers 春風 and destructive burning answers renewed growth. In lines 5–6, 遠芳 answers 晴翠 and 古道 answers 荒城.

The even-numbered endings 榮, 生, 城, 情 belong to the historical rhyme used by the poem. Modern Mandarin does not make all four sound identical. The pinyin supplies a modern reading, including yí suì, yì kū, and bú jìn; it does not reconstruct Tang pronunciation. We omit a tone grid rather than derive one from modern tone marks.

賦得 in the title signals composition on a given topic. It does not, by itself, prove that these exact lines were written during a particular examination.

Bai Juyi is often praised for accessible language. This poem shows why “accessible” does not mean that a short excerpt contains the whole work. The first four lines can stand in memory as a cycle of destruction and return. The completed Tang poem turns that cycle toward one person’s departure.

Read it with Yellow Crane Tower Farewell, where the river remains after a sail disappears, or with Spring View, where spring growth fills a devastated capital. The shared vegetation does not make their occasions interchangeable. The relevant shelves are nature and farewell.

For the complete text and explanatory notes, see the Hong Kong Education Bureau reading. The ancient allusion can be checked in “Summoning the Recluse,” 招隱士. The English translation and notes are original to PoemWell.