Slow and reluctant, I have waited
Day after day, till now I must go.
How sweet the road-side flowers might be
If they did not mean good-bye, old friend.
The Lords of the Realm are harsh to us
And men of affairs are not our kind.
I will turn back home, I will say no more,
I will close the gate of my old garden.
Original Poem
「留别王维」
孟浩然
寂寂竟何待，朝朝空自归。
欲寻芳草去，惜与故人违。
当路谁相假，知音世所稀。
只应守寂寞，还掩故园扉。
Interpretation
This poem was composed in the seventeenth year of the Kaiyuan era (729 CE), when Meng Haoran was forty-one years old. It was his second departure from Chang'an—and his last. The previous year he had failed the imperial examination, yet he did not immediately return south but lingered in the capital, still seeking a path to advancement. What did he experience during that year? The poem does not elaborate, but the ten characters "寂寂竟何待，朝朝空自归" provide testimony enough. He did not fail to try—he tried; he did not fail to wait—he waited to the end. Every morning he went out to seek his fortune; every evening he returned alone—to where? Likely to Wang Wei's official residence, or to some humble lodgings he had borrowed. He returned empty-handed, and empty-hearted.
The title's "留别" (farewell) is a genre of parting poem, usually written on the eve of departure and presented to the one who sees the traveler off. Yet Meng Haoran's poem, addressed to Wang Wei, reads more like a letter of farewell to himself. He is bidding farewell to a friend, but also to Chang'an, to officialdom, and to that younger self who once "longed to cross the vast sea." At this time Wang Wei was twenty-nine, already an official in the capital, and Meng Haoran's closest companion. By the poem's end, Meng Haoran makes no request for further recommendation, betrays no lingering hope. He simply says: "只应守寂寞，还掩故园扉." This is not petulance—it is acceptance. Not resentment—it is release.
First Couplet: "寂寂竟何待，朝朝空自归。"
Jì jì jìng hé dài, zhāo zhāo kōng zì guī.
In utter silence, what am I waiting for?
Day after day I return empty-handed, alone.
The opening is a thorough self-interrogation. "寂寂" describes the surroundings, but more so the state of mind—Chang'an's streets were noisy with traffic, yet the poet's world had already entered winter. "竟何待" is a question, but also an answer. He knew well what he was waiting for: a letter of recommendation, an audience with the emperor, a long-overdue favor from fate. But after a year of waiting, all he had was "朝朝空自归"—returning empty-handed day after day. The character "空" (empty) is the poem's first emotional accent. It is not the emptiness of being alone, but the emptiness of having gained nothing. In the morning he set out with a shred of hope; by evening even that shred was spent. Day after day, morning after morning. These five words capture a thousand days and nights of futility in Chang'an.
Second Couplet: "欲寻芳草去，惜与故人违。"
Yù xún fāng cǎo qù, xī yǔ gù rén wéi.
I wish to go and seek the fragrant grass,
Yet I regret parting from you, my old friend.
This couplet marks the emotional turn of the poem, and Meng Haoran's most affectionate confession to Wang Wei. "芳草" (fragrant grass) is a symbol of reclusion, a classic trope for the scholar's spiritual homecoming since Qu Yuan's Li Sao: "Where in all the world is there no fragrant grass?" The poet says "欲寻" (wish to seek), not "已寻" (have sought)—the thought of reclusion had long taken root, yet he had never been able to act on it. For one reason only: "惜与故人违"—regretting to part from an old friend. The character "惜" (regret) is gentle in tone yet immense in weight. It is not fear, not resentment, not compulsion—simply a pure, tender reluctance to leave. Chang'an had given him nothing—except Wang Wei. The city offered no official title, no opportunity, no reason to stay. But it gave him one kindred spirit. And that single reason was enough to make him hesitate for an entire year.
Third Couplet: "当路谁相假，知音世所稀。"
Dāng lù shuí xiāng jiǎ, zhī yīn shì suǒ xī.
Among those in power, who would lend me a hand?
True kindred spirits are rare in this world.
This couplet moves from personal friendship to a general judgment on the world. "当路" refers to those in high office—men with whom Meng Haoran had always had little luck. He had made his appeals, presented his poems, waited at the gates of the powerful. But those gates, one by one, had closed. He does not blame any particular person; he laments "谁相假"—no one would lend him a boat to cross. "知音世所稀" is the most painful line in the poem, yet it is not an accusation. Meng Haoran does not say "the world is muddy and I alone am clear," nor does he say "the masses cannot recognize a jewel." He simply states a fact: men like Wang Wei are too few. So few that, when leaving Chang'an, the only thing he could not let go of was this one friendship.
Fourth Couplet: "只应守寂寞，还掩故园扉。"
Zhǐ yīng shǒu jì mò, hái yǎn gù yuán fēi.
I should only keep to solitude,
And return to close the gate of my old garden.
The conclusion is a definitive resolution. "只应" (should only) is not a reluctant compromise, but a clear-eyed choice. He has seen it plainly: Chang'an has no place for him, officialdom has no ticket for him. Rather than linger here in "寂寂竟何待", it is better to go back to Xiangyang and "还掩故园扉". The three characters "守寂寞" (keep to solitude) are the poem's eye. It is not passively enduring solitude, but actively choosing to dwell with it. Solitude is no longer a punishment imposed by fate, but a home he claims for himself. From "寂寂竟何待" to "只应守寂寞", the poet completes his final answer to the first half of his life: it is not that he could not wait, but that he need not wait any longer; it is not that he could not return, but that he is finally willing to return.
Overall Appreciation
This poem is the requiem Meng Haoran wrote for himself as he left Chang'an. It was composed a year after his failure, when anger had settled and fear had dissolved, leaving only clarity and peace. What had he experienced during that year? The poem does not say explicitly, but we can read between the lines. He had endured the cycle of "朝朝空自归", the disappointment of "当路谁相假", and the agonizing oscillation between "欲寻芳草去" and "惜与故人违". He finally chose to leave—not because he no longer cherished the friendship, but precisely because he cherished it too much—he could not bear to let Wang Wei watch him wither away day by day.
Structurally, the four couplets trace an emotional arc: the first couplet is a self-interrogation at rock bottom; the second ascends to affective attachment; the third offers a level-headed observation of the world; the fourth ends in serene acceptance. Meng Haoran does not let the poem wallow in "寂寂", nor does he dwell in the regret of parting. He simply writes it all out, then rises and takes the road.
In terms of theme, the poem pivots on the three characters "守寂寞." The "寂" of "寂寂竟何待" is the desolation of being forsaken; the "寂" of "只应守寂寞" is the clarity of self-chosen solitude. The same word undergoes a qualitative transformation in feeling. Through the progression of four couplets, Meng Haoran completely washes away the negative connotations of a word and invests it with a new dignity.
Artistically, the most striking quality of this poem is its use of the calmest tone to deliver the most definitive farewell. The poet does not weep, does not complain, does not leave a single sentence in his parting poem that might make his friend feel guilty. He simply says: I am going back; take care of yourself. This is a near-cruel decency—he keeps all the sorrow to himself and offers all the consideration to the other.
Artistic Features
- The Oppressive Repetition of Reduplicative Words: "寂寂" and "朝朝"—two reduplicative words appear consecutively in the first couplet, creating a rhythmic sense of endless cycle. This is not a graceful refrain, but the pacing of a caged beast. Day after day, morning after morning, he could never step out of Chang'an's invisible cage.
- Meticulous Progression of Emotional Logic: The poem's emotional development is rigorously ordered—the first couplet speaks of "nothing to wait for"; the second of reluctant attachment; the third of clear-sighted realization of "no help"; the fourth of the resolve to return. The four couplets are interlocked, irreversible, irreducible. This is the mark of Meng Haoran's consummate artistry.
- The Private Termination of the "Kindred Spirit" Motif: Meng Haoran wrote throughout his life of the regret of lacking a kindred spirit—"恨无知音赏" in Summer in the South Pavilion, "还将两行泪，遥寄海西头" in Mooring on the Tonglu River—all variations on this theme. Yet Farewell to Wang Wei writes of having a kindred spirit right before his eyes, and still being compelled to part—this is a deeper tragedy than having none. It is not that he never found one; it is that, having found one, he still had to leave.
- The Semantic Reversal of "Solitude": From the "寂寂" of the first couplet to the "守寂寞" of the last, the same word undergoes a qualitative transformation. The former "寂" is the desolation of abandonment; the latter "寂" is the clarity of self-chosen solitude. Through the progression of four couplets, Meng Haoran completely washes away the negative charge of a word and reinvests it with new dignity.
- The Symbolic Power of the Concluding Action: "还掩故园扉" is the only concrete action in the entire poem. The preceding three couplets are all psychological activity—self-questioning, hesitation, reflection, judgment; only at the final moment does the poet truly move. This action is like a period, closing the account of a thousand days in Chang'an; or like a latch, gently shutting out all the grievances and regrets of the first half of his life.
Insights
This poem teaches us: one can maintain the fullest dignity in the most complete defeat. When Meng Haoran left Chang'an, he had nothing—no office, no travel funds, no future. The only things he possessed were Wang Wei's friendship and the courage to choose to "守寂寞." He did not beg Wang Wei for further recommendation, did not rail against injustice, did not leave any sentence that might make his friend feel guilty. He simply said: I am going back; take care of yourself. This is a near-cruel decency—he kept all the sorrow for himself and gave all the consideration to the other.
Contemporary society celebrates the philosophy of "never give up," equating surrender with failure and acceptance with weakness. Yet Meng Haoran proves with this poem that acceptance is not defeat, and surrender is not collapse. Sometimes, admitting "this path is blocked" takes greater courage than continuing to batter against the wall; sometimes, choosing solitude takes deeper composure than enduring noise. When he left Chang'an he was forty-one, with nearly twenty years of life remaining. In those years, he never again set foot in the capital, never again wrote poems seeking office. He simply lived quietly under the pines and moonlight of Lumen Mountain, among the lotus-scented breezes of Jiannan Garden, writing poetry, waiting for spring. He did not become Zhang Jiuling, did not become Wang Wei, did not become a "success" in any conventional sense. But he became Meng Haoran—the gentlest, most dignified, most self-possessed failure in Chinese literary history.
"只应守寂寞，还掩故园扉."
A thousand years later, we no longer remember who held power in Chang'an that year, nor which men passed the examinations and rose to prominence. But we remember this poem, and this figure turning away in solitude. The gate he closed on his old garden has never fully shut. Through its crack, a light still shines, illuminating countless who came after.
Poem translator
Kiang Kanghu
About the poet
Meng Haoran (孟浩然 689 - 740), a native of Xiangyang, Hubei Province, was a renowned landscape and pastoral poet of the Tang Dynasty. In his early years, he lived in seclusion on Mount Lumen, reading for his own pleasure. At the age of forty, he traveled to the capital to take the jinshi examination but failed. Thereafter, he remained a commoner for the rest of his life, roaming the Wu and Yue regions and finding contentment in poetry and wine. He excelled in five-character verse, with a style that is light and natural, often depicting the pleasures of landscapes and reclusion. He is regarded as a representative of the High Tang landscape and pastoral poetry school. His collected works, Meng Haoran Ji, have been handed down, and his poetry exerted a profound influence on later hermitic poetic traditions.
