Have you not seen the Green-Calyx Plum of Xuanhe's Genyue, the foremost among all flowers?
The lanterns of crimson skies did not last the night, cut for firewood and reduced to ashes.
Have you not seen the halted carriage at Qiantang opening Gathering Scenery, this plum again bloomed, favored by heaven?
The river god, lacking talent, let horses ford in flight, trampling the forbidden ground, leaving no trace of blossoms.
For over a hundred and fifty years in two places, blossoms and the capital have come and gone.
Who knew the Creator's intent was not exhausted, still leaving in the world a kind of gaunt elegance.
A fair one in the mountains, pure as water, unleashes poetic gluttony, chewing the blossom's marrow.
I have not seen the flower but have seen the poem; seeing the poem is like seeing the flower.
And I hear in the ninth month the blossoms are already fragrant, a wondrous sight before the eyes keeps poetry busy.
Before the腊 and after the new year is the proper season; why suddenly in autumn's light—is this its norm?
At Dayu Ridge's head, a land of miasmal heat, blooming early each year is no strange thing.
Siming is thousands of miles away; should not early blossoms also be thus?
Alas, the earth's qi rolls like a wheel, from south to north—who knows how many springs?
Now what meets the eye, plants and trees, not just birds flying, cry at the heavenly ford.
O plum, O plum, originally pure and transcendent, blossoms like white jade, branches like iron.
Why, so proud, does your heart also follow, forgetting former pride against frost and snow?
In Tang gardens, the ninth month boasts pear blossoms; at Crane Forest, the ninth month glows with azaleas.
I wish to pour a libation of wine at the plum's root, pray do not vie with them for untimely beauty.