“Now I am sitting alone. I listen, but cannot hear my grooms and servants move or speak. I think much of old days: how hand in hand, composing poems as we went, we walked down twisting paths to the banks of clear streams.”
About Wang Wei
699–761
Among the towering figures of China’s Golden Age of poetry, Wang Wei stands apart—not as a rival to Li Bai’s celestial intoxication or Du Fu’s earthly anguish, but as a quiet, meditative counterpoint. He is the poet of the empty mountain, the painter of the silent stream, the musician who heard the cosmic resonance in…