Why rush, no need for startled waking, to rouse the thatched hut's man from sleep?
Calculating success, failure, gain, loss—not for a subject to foresee, only after death it ends.
How could it compare to gathering mulberry for eight hundred, watching silkworms weave by night at a small window?
Vainly two pecks of grain self-imposed hardship, making others mourn in the Sleeping Dragon's lair.
There is another beauty, chasing peach blossoms, resenting plum.
Embracing the fragrant, embroidered quilt.
Who would know—the warrior's mournful song, whistling through the cold water he crosses.
Ask Jing Ke, at Tian Heng's ancient tomb, who now brings wine to pour libation for you?
Crossing the frosty bridge under the setting moon, the old man is gone, leaving no sandal behind.
Set it aside, speak no more, the departed are like this river, oh how extreme this long decline!
Sir, make for me plans to return, plans to till the land.
Only ask which spring's water is sweet, which village's fish is fine.
In this life, I wish not for many talents or arts.
Merit and fame emerge from the helmet on horseback; let no scholar ruin all affairs of this world.
Years ago, willows planted by the river pool, climbing to break a branch—alas, the tree is still thus!
Climbing high, a single laugh, holding chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, let it be just this way again.
Try to look back—Dragon Mountain road broken, Riding Terrace desolate, Wei River's autumn wind, Sandy River's night market.
Enough, enough, no more, no more, do not pour me too much wine; my madness most delights in singing loudly off, but this loud singing is not of barbarian tune.
At this moment, facing my shadow we become three; calling Chang'e to dance—for whom is this joy?