The Nanmu is a truly fine tree, / Distinct from common woods while still a tender sprig.
Though the master carpenter has not yet eyed it, / It will grow into a beam and pillar in the end.
The oak at the village shrine, huge enough to shade an ox, / Is of no use to the world's affairs.
Cast aside as scattered timber, / Hollowed out by years of neglect.
Indeed, it is Heaven's creation, / Yet also depends on the virtuous to plant.
My son, you are of the Nanmu's lineage, / In childhood, you did not care for idle play.
Though not yet versed in the classics' teachings, / You could recite them after a few readings.
Now at fifteen or sixteen, / Your demeanor is quite steady and grave.
Relying on the efforts of teachers and friends, / You've pieced together rhapsodies and odes.
Silk threads, though not yet a full foot long, / Are roughly woven into the loom's warp and weft.
Why then do you overreach yourself, / Preparing to answer the provincial examination?
The literary arena holds a thousandfold contenders; / Can any writer succeed by mere chance?
And you, among them all, / Are like a sparrow mingling with phoenixes.
A leaden blade is hard to sharpen; / Perhaps it can serve for a moment's clamor.
What indeed is the Creator's will? / Often it shows in auspicious dreams.
May Heaven aid my heart's desire, / And keep you from waywardness and sloth.
Mastery demands diligence's toil; / Endure the frozen dawn by the window.
Writings are the world's public vessel; / Fine phrases belong to all people.
Chanting this poem at the year's dawn, / I rinse the cup and lift the spring wine jar.
Our house holds hidden virtue; / Go forth and bring glory to the blazing Song.