“We must wait for Spring to come: till the grasses sprout and the trees bloom. Then wandering together in the spring hills we shall see the trout leap lightly from the stream, the white gulls stretch their wings, the dew fall on the green moss.”
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…