The God of Winter holds his icy post, but for how long?
A trial of snow in late autumn seems too soon; as winter ends, its power is hushed, not shown.
The wind's voice holds no wrath, the sun's chariot draws near; travelers' furs are thin, the river's ice not yet clear.
In Wu's gates, a hundred thousand households, hearts and mouths share one doubt.
Heaven's Lord runs the four seasons; heat and cold each have their proper bout.
The year is late, yet no snow's seen; how will the coming year dispel its blight and rout?
Some say the dragon of Taihu Lake, seeking quiet, has locked his sacred door.
Playing with the bright moon, seated in his shell palace—what cares he for the world's joy or sore?
The jade terrace, twelve layers high, hosts ten thousand jade consorts in a row.
Grinding jade, shearing water—mere playful acts; with a fairy's finger-snap, no need for plans to grow.
In vain we gaze with eager hearts; in the end, its coming is slow.
The old man of the Water Clan in the Celery Palace sees things differently from the common flow.
He knows immortals don't act without thought; would the Dragon Lord be like a lazy boy, so?
Yet over this thousand-mile span, the Master of Fate entrusts it to the officer's hand.
Stroking and pondering with all day's strength, by day he studies, by night thinks, as planned.
Those once exposed to cold now find warmth; each quilt and wadding comes from his command.
In days of Zhao Shuai, warmth reached every hut; with sunny days added, harmony expands.
Yellow-haired children, white-haired elders sing and dance; harmonious airs, like ocarina answering panpipes, stand.
The host of immortals descends with grace; the dragon too obeys the guiding hand.
First, a sprinkling rain for five days falls; snow comes without the Duke's plea, as if pre-planned.
Flowers form mounds, willow-down arrays; snow is sheared by wind, sifted fine and grand.
Not just to quell the winter's warmth, but to let the wheat be moistened, blessed on the land.
Last year was there no snow? The Snow God did not return with spring.
Relief was not pre-planned; he watched the people's hunger, weakening.
Other lands also had this snow—was it disaster or blessing, this thing?
Bitterness and joy lie inches apart; full are the sighs the people bring.
Who knows this snow brings fortune to this soil? Its people, like in Jian De, on spring terraces play and sing.
Poet Su of old, at Ying's end, rejoiced in snow, worried for folks, his duties laying by.
Distributed firewood, left grain to each door—such deeds, not far past, who can deny?
Now, between wanting snow and its fall, concern is fixed; to turn back spring's intent, he can outfly.
I plan to raise Su's terrace method of grace and care, to follow the Ying immortal's name, undying high.
Pity I lack Shi Kuang's lute, to set my humble poem to strings with subtle sigh.