Bright, bright is the Morning Sun Pavilion;
Before the pavilion, the Bell Mountain shows its verdant hue.
On the shady side of the cliff, snow still lies deep;
Its radiance floats in the first clear sky after rain.
Below the pavilion flows a clear stream,
Smoothly gliding over newly thawed ice.
A pair of ducks, knowing to follow the sun,
Also chase the drifting ice floes downstream.
In the pavilion, the wise host,
Delights in this scene of pristine clarity.
He opens the door to welcome guests in,
Scoops snow to brew as spring water.
The swelling Huai River churns and presses;
Its fine scales gleam like silver vases.
We pour more wine of Qinhuai spring,
To pair with this jade-colored lentil soup.
Utterly free from worldly vulgarity,
Both inside and out, it's a fairyland.
The universe holds such fine charm;
When the heart is clear, the scene merges with it.
I deeply admire the host's virtue,
Serenely detached from worldly pursuits.
He does not speak of pleasing others with drink,
But earnestly expresses heavenly sincerity.
The place of purity is also supremely wondrous—
Slender, slender are the autumn dew-laden stems.
His chest holds enough hills and valleys;
Even the city walls become woods and wilds.
Not seeking rendezvous with wind and moon,
He builds a hut among simple thatches.
Yet I, the lowliest guest, feel ashamed—
My form is foul, my insight dull.
Long have I cherished deep, secluded tastes,
But gradually, dust and grime encroach and entangle.
An office colder than iron;
I sit foolishly like a frozen fly.
Summoned to discuss ritual vessels,
I did not know the plum had already blossomed.
Such pure enjoyment must be passed on;
My crude words fear they may not suffice.
The spring breeze sends off the roc's journey;
With眷恋, I seek to keep this vow.