琼花

In Yangzhou stands a flower, peerless under the sky.

Year after year at the Earth Shrine, it outshines jade on high.

Its core holds the grace of scattered water, pure and bright,

While butterflies frolic in clusters around its delight.

No fragrance from the roseleaf raspberry can compare,

And the peony blushes, ashamed of its charms so fair.

Its lush, round canopy of green spreads like a shade,

Adorned with scattered pearls, in disarray displayed.

It scorns the vulgar crowd's profusion, a common sight,

Guarding its secluded grace with solitary might.

I've heard of connoisseurs who wished, with eager aim,

To transplant it to the capital for wealth and fame.

But this would violate its spirit, lonely and clear,

And thwart the very purpose of its nurture here.

In Luoyang, the red peony, timely in its prime,

Gains a changing fame, adapting to the tide of time.

New glories sprout from ancient branches, strange and grand,

A thousand forms of bewitching beauty fill the land.

Heaven lends its hues, both deep and light, to human will,

And in the spring's third month, when crowds their passion thrill,

Carriages and horses clamor like a market's roar.

Plants and trees receive their gifts—how can we lightly score

Their gains and losses? Each by nature's lot is blessed.

I come, and seeing this flower first, my heart finds rest.

Before this bloom, I lose myself in a drunken quest.