The court historian returned late from the south stream,
He halted his carriage at Jiangling, lingering in leisure's dream.
His colored brush once sang of the daffodil's grace,
Alas, the nation's fragrance finds no favor in heaven's place.
He likened the flower to Luofu, a maiden fair,
Not yet seventeen, but past fifteen with beauty rare.
At Song Yu's gate, noble followers bend,
By the Blue Bridge's door, poverty's lot they must defend.
For ten years, his gaze reached a distant, unattained shore,
The lord comes not, nor to heaven's realm does he soar.
Now wed to a neighbor, her lovely form takes flight,
Leaving but the poet's fervent verses in empty light.
I hear the parted phoenix and crane mourn in despair,
The worthless husband sells the moth-eyebrows fair.
Peach blossoms bear fruit after the wind's soft sigh,
In Wu Gorge, wandering clouds fulfill dreams drifting by.
Tian Lang, fond of fine things, has long known her plight,
Repaying with bright pearls, a friendship stony and bright.
Haggard, she's still thought the goddess of Luo's stream,
Her charm could rival the willows of Zhangtai's dream.
With jeweled hair, rhinoceros comb, and golden phoenix high,
Before the wine, I first met Dong Jiao-rao, catching the eye.
Coming late, Du Mu would surely harbor regret,
And Suzhou's sorrow too would melt, one can bet.
Yet when I speak of daffodils, a thought takes hold,
I recall the yellow scholar of the west, bold.
He alone knew me as I was in days of yore,
Regretting not writing 'yellow' in characters to explore.
When Prince Wang first heard this tale, so strange and true,
He asked for a poem, crafting it with a mournful hue.
Now, with no way to drive the beans away,
Only Tian Lang is called 'Nation's Fragrance' today.