There are no handles upon a language 
Whereby men take hold of it 
And mark it with signs for its remembrance. 
It is a river, this language, 
Once in a thousand years 
Breaking a new course 
Changing its way to the ocean. 
It is mountain effluvia 
Moving to valleys 
And from nation to nation 
Crossing borders and mixing. 
Languages die like rivers. 
Words wrapped round your tongue today 
And broken to shape of thought 
Between your teeth and lips speaking 
Now and today 
Shall be faded hieroglyphics 
Ten thousand years from now. 
Sing—and singing—remember 
Your song dies and changes 
And is not here to-morrow 
Any more than the wind 
Blowing ten thousand years ago. 

中 秋 全 景 屬 潛 夫

zhōng qiū quán jǐng shǔ qián fū

 

棹 入 空 明 看 太 湖

zhào rù kōng míng kàn tài hú

 

身 外 水 天 銀 一 色

shēn wài shuǐ tiān yín yī sè

 

城 中 有 此 月 明 無

chéng zhōng yǒu cǐ yuè míng wú

 

范成大fànchéngdà (1126-1193)<四時田園雜興sìshítiányuánzáxìng>