I met Du Fu on a mountaintop
in August when the sun was hot.
Under the shade of his big straw hat
his face was sad--
in the years since we last parted,
he'd grown wan, exhausted.
Poor old Du Fu, I thought then,
he must be agonizing over poetry again.
Return to the Li Bai Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; A Farewell To Secretary Shuyun At The Xietiao Villa In Xuanzhou