The old fool has newly built a hall by the pond,
Thinking of Bai Letian's 'Song of the Pond'.
Letian knew early to retreat with courage,
His pure breeze, awe-inspiring, through ages does resound.
Even among the ancients, few can match his grace,
How could a fool like me ever hope to take his place?
I merely list the things that graced his pond of yore,
And feel ashamed that what I have falls short, and more.
East of my pond, no granary stores surplus grain;
West of my pond, no pavilion strums the five-stringed strain.
No lofty bridge spans three isles in the middle ground,
Nor giant turtle's back beneath clear ripples found.
No hundred slender fingers of young singing maids
To blend in scattered preludes, as the music fades.
No three flat stones to spread a Xiang bamboo mat,
No pair of cranes in stillness, like immortals sat.
No elegant blue-plank boat from Wu's domain,
For safe and sturdy travels on the watery plain.
Now my retreat is easily enough designed,
A great house south of the pond holds books of every kind.
A cartload cannot match ten thousand volumes' wealth,
For sons and grandsons to delve in with studious zeal.
Tall bamboos flank the hall, embracing shades of green,
A thousand stems crowd the railings, dense and serene.
What grows within the pond is somewhat lovely too:
Foxnut trays, water caltrops, red and white lotus new.
Many peony names from Jiangdu have come here,
And Luoyang's peerless blooms, most brilliant and fair.
In season, flowers bloom left and right of the pool,
Their fragrant buds dyed bright as morning clouds that rule.
Here the old fool finds no shallow delight,
At times feasting guests on fragrant mats in sight.
Lovely maids gaze on fair flowers, a pleasing view,
While soft strings and flutes listen to the spring that flows through.
Yicheng's brewing method is also said to be fine,
With verse and wine, I barely follow those of former time.
Wild chants, my vigor brushes the Milky Way;
Hearty drinks, my form released, I forget sable and plume display.
Drunk and blissful, I sleep upon the mat,
In the land of intoxication, what is there but vastness flat?
Life's joy lies in finding what suits oneself best,
Is this comfort different from Bai Letian's rest?
Though not retired, I already know this state,
When retired, my joy—who knows if I'll be first or late?