Now that the sun has set beyond the western range,
Valley after valley is shadowy and dim….
And now through pine-trees come the moon and the chill of evening,
And my ears feel pure with the sound of wind and water
Nearly all the woodsmen have reached home,
Birds have settled on their perches in the quiet mist….
And still -- because you promised -- I am waiting for you, waiting,
Playing lute under a wayside vine.
Original Poem
「宿业师山房期丁大不至」
孟浩然
夕阳度西岭，群壑倏已暝。
松月生夜凉，风泉满清听。
樵人归欲尽，烟鸟栖初定。
之子期宿来，孤琴候萝径。
Interpretation
This poem was composed during Meng Haoran's period of reclusion at Lumen Mountain. The exact year is uncertain, but judging from the poem's atmosphere, it was likely after 729 CE, in the latter half of his life following his failure in Chang'an and his complete renunciation of official aspirations. "Monk Ye" was a Buddhist monk in the mountains. "Ding the Elder" refers to Ding Feng, a close friend and fellow townsman of the poet, with whom he often roamed, feasted, and exchanged verses. The phrase "had promised to come and stay the night" reveals this was a pre-arranged evening of mountain conversation—the friend had promised to come lodge at the mountain temple, and the poet began waiting from dusk. This expectation, in the end, was not fulfilled as promised.
It is worth noting that the image of the "waiter" presented by Meng Haoran in this poem is distinctly different from the "longer" in "Thinking of Xin, the Elder on a Summer Day." On that summer night in the Southern Pavilion, he was the lonely figure who "longed to take up his chiming qin, / But grieved no soul who understood was there to hear it," where the beautiful scenery only magnified the regret of the friend's absence. On this mountain night, he also waited long in vain, yet not a trace of anxiety or resentment is seen. He simply sat quietly with his qin under the pines and moonlight, beside the vine-entangled path, turning a broken promise into a scene. This transformation precisely marks the spiritual divide between two stages of Meng Haoran's life. When longing for his friend in the Southern Pavilion, he was still wavering between official service and reclusion, his heart still carrying the regret of a "soul who understands." But the man of Lumen Mountain at this point had already achieved reconciliation with his fate. He no longer waited urgently for anyone's arrival, because he himself had become the most composed master of these mountain forests.
First Couplet: "夕阳度西岭，群壑倏已暝。"
Xīyáng dù xī lǐng, qún hè shū yǐ míng.
The setting sun passes behind the western ridge; / In a breath, all valleys are swallowed by twilight.
The opening describes the arrival of dusk, using two highly dynamic words. "Passes" personifies the setting sun—it does not "set" or "sink," but "passes" behind the ridge, as if a distant traveler completing the day's journey. The word "in a breath" marks a sudden turn, describing the swiftness with which the valleys sink from light into dark—a momentary visual shift, and a poetic perception of time's flow. The poet has not yet appeared, but his gaze already follows the sun over the mountains, and his sense of wonder descends with the twilight. These first ten words draw the reader into the mountain forest being reclaimed inch by inch by the night.
Second Couplet: "松月生夜凉，风泉满清听。"
Sōng yuè shēng yè liáng, fēng quán mǎn qīng tīng.
Through pines, the moon begets the evening's chill; / Wind in the springs fills listening with a crystal thrill.
These are the poem's most famous lines and a model of Meng Haoran's landscape poetry. The word "begets" is exquisite—the night's coolness is not an external invasion, but is "begotten" from the moonlight among the pines, the lingering sensation after the warmth carried by the moonlight itself recedes. The word "begets" gives an abstract change in temperature a concrete source and imbues the static moonlit night with a sense of life. "Fills listening with a crystal thrill" is an even more inspired phrase. "Fills" is a spatial plenitude; the wind-sound is here, the spring-sound is here, the entire mountain night is infused with this clear, crisp sound. "Crystal thrill" is the quality of the hearing, and a reflection of the state of mind. The poet does not say he is listening, but his presence has already dissolved into this "fullness"—he is not a visitor to the mountain night; he is its vessel.
This couplet forms a subtle progression in time with the previous one: the setting sun is the departing light, the pine moon is the arriving light; twilight is the visual descent, wind-springs are the aural awakening. From dusk to night, from sight to sound, the poet thus steps deeper into the heart of the mountain night.
Third Couplet: "樵人归欲尽，烟鸟栖初定。"
Qiáo rén guī yù jìn, yān niǎo qī chū dìng.
Woodcutters heading home are nearly gone from sight; / Through mist, birds settle on their roosts as falls the night.
This couplet describes the fading of human traces and the quieting of birds. Woodcutters are the last active figures in the mountains by day; their "nearly gone" means the forest is completely surrendered to the night. Birds in the mist are the last creatures to return to their nests at dusk; their "settle" means all sounds are about to subside into silence. The poet is still waiting, but he writes only of things outside his waiting. He does not write "Ding the Elder has not come," only that the woodcutters are gone and the misty birds are settled—these people and birds, unrelated to him, are all completing the evening's ritual according to their own rhythms. Only the waiter is suspended outside all rhythms. Yet there is no trace of anxiety in the poem. This "writing by not writing" is precisely Meng Haoran's deepest composure.
Fourth Couplet: "之子期宿来，孤琴候萝径。"
Zhī zǐ qī sù lái, gū qín hòu luó jìng.
My friend, you pledged to come and share this night; / A lone lute waits on vine-entangled paths, bereft of light.
Not until the final line does the subject of the waiting appear. "Lone lute" is the poem's pivotal phrase. The lute is a symbol of a kindred spirit, the same lute from "longed to take up his chiming qin, / But grieved no soul who understood was there to hear it," the lute that remained unplayed on that Southern Pavilion summer night. Tonight, the poet still brings the lute, still waits alone. But the "lone" of this night and the "grieved" of the Southern Pavilion are two entirely different states of mind. The "grieved" of the Southern Pavilion was the regret of expecting and not receiving, the silence of the lute when the kindred spirit was absent. The "lone" of this night is the composure of expecting without resentment; it is the lute in the embrace, the person on the path; whether the friend comes or not does not hinder the moonlight and pine wind.
"Waits" is the emotional destination of the entire poem. It is not "awaits"—"awaits" is passive, anxious; "waits" is active, peaceful. It is placing oneself at the appointed location with respect and sincerity, then letting time flow on its own. What the poet waits for is not only Ding Feng; it is his own complete companionship with the mountain night, with the lute, with solitude itself.
Overall Appreciation
This poem is the ultimate expression of the theme of "waiting" in Meng Haoran's reclusive poetry. The poem transforms a "broken promise" into fulfillment. The friend did not arrive, yet the poet feels no loss; the lute waits alone, yet the poet harbors no resentment. He simply sits quietly on the vine-entangled path, letting the sun pass behind the ridge, the valleys sink into twilight; letting the pine moon beget coolness, the wind-springs fill listening; letting the woodcutters vanish, the misty birds settle. In waiting, he completes his fusion with the entire mountain night; waiting itself becomes the purpose, not merely a means to an end.
This is not forced detachment, but a fundamental transformation in his state of being. The Meng Haoran of the Southern Pavilion summer night was still trapped in the obsession of the "kindred spirit"—he needed another person to affirm his existence, needed his lute music to be heard to grant it meaning. But the Meng Haoran of Lumen Mountain no longer needed these things. He brings the lute because the lute is part of himself; he waits on the vine-entangled path because waiting itself is his way of being in the world.
The friend's arrival would be fulfillment; the friend's absence is also fulfillment. Because he is no longer that person who "longed to cross, yet lacked both boat and oar," anxiously waiting to be ferried to the other shore. This shore is the other shore; Lumen Mountain is Chang'an; the pine moon is the kindred spirit.
Artistic Features
- Implicit Narrative of Time: The poem uses "setting sun—pine moon—woodcutters' return—birds settling" as implicit temporal markers, clearly outlining the progression from dusk to deep night. The poet does not write how long he waited; the passage of time is fully contained in the transformation of the scenery.
- Progressive Immersion of the Senses: The first couplet is visual (setting sun, valleys); the second is tactile and aural (evening chill, wind-springs); the third is the fading of human sounds and bird traces; the fourth is the crystallization of mood. The poem guides the reader step by step from outer to inner, from movement to stillness, sinking into the core of the poet's coexistence with the mountain night.
- Delayed and Suspended Subject: The first three couplets contain not a single word about "I." Not until the final line, "A lone lute waits…," does the poet appear for the first and only time. This delaying of the subject makes the poet's persona not an "observer" intruding upon the mountain forest, but an "existent" grown from the mountain forest itself.
- Emotional Transformation of the Lute Imagery: From the "longed to take up his chiming qin, / But grieved no soul who understood was there to hear it" in "Thinking of Xin, the Elder on a Summer Day" to the "lone lute waits" in this poem, the same lute completes an emotional transformation from "regret" to "peace." This is not only an echo of poetic imagery but the closing of a circle in the poet's attitude towards life.
Insights
This work teaches us not how to wait for a friend, but how to wait for life. In a sense, we are all "waiters"—waiting for opportunity, for recognition, for someone to arrive, for life to give us our due. Most waiting is anxious because we place all meaning on the endpoint of the wait; we fear disappointment, fear broken promises, fear that all preparation ultimately yields only the two words: "did not come." Meng Haoran, in this poem, offers another possibility for waiting: to make the act of waiting itself the meaning. He waits on the vine-entangled path not to prove that Ding Feng will come, but to let himself fully experience this mountain night. The pine moon begets coolness for him, the wind-springs sound for him, the woodcutters and misty birds complete the evening's ritual for him—even if Ding Feng ultimately did not appear, this night was not spent in vain.
So it is with life. The goal we strive towards may never be reached; the person we wait for may never come. But the very act of striving, of waiting, already constitutes the most real content of our lives. What matters is not whether we cross or not, but what kind of person you become while standing on the shore. That night a thousand years ago, whether Ding Feng ultimately came or not, we do not know. But that lone lute, that vine-entangled path, that pine moon have since become the gentlest proof in the history of Chinese literature: **There is a kind of fulfillment that lies not in the outcome, but in the journey itself.
Poem translator
Kiang Kanghu
About the poet
Meng Haoran (孟浩然), 689 - 740 AD, a native of Xiangyang, Hubei, was a famous poet of the Sheng Tang Dynasty. With the exception of one trip to the north when he was in his forties, when he was seeking fame in Chang'an and Luoyang, he spent most of his life in seclusion in his hometown of Lumenshan or roaming around.
