I hear the capital is short of grain;
I pray, forgetting sleep, with all my might.
My pure devotion moves the gods to rain;
The swirling snowflakes dance in endless flight.
Like jade-cut petals, shy and frail they seem;
Or willow down that trembles in the breeze.
All cheer for wheat in fields, a hopeful gleam;
Who pities guests in threadbare clothes that freeze?
Spring's grace pours down, vast as the boundless sky;
Dawn's light invades my window, growing bright.
Paths buried deep where three trails used to lie;
Nine-flower lamps dimmed by the snowy white.
Perched birds find nowhere solid to alight;
The fishing boat can barely bear the weight.
Ridges and hills are lost in uniform white;
No boundary left between field and estate.
Courtyard jade piles up a foot in height;
Terraced clouds stack layer on layer in sight.
Like Yuan An, I'm trapped, with no way out;
Like Wu Han, full, yet powerless to act.
In lonely bed, a bowl of sorrow's drought;
By hearth, I miss the warmth of arms compact.
I leisurely brew tea with pot in hand;
Dig earth to store ice, learning ancient art.
Why not chant the "Odes" of Zhou's fair land?
How could I climb Mount Yan, set apart?
The Qi palace scene of days long past;
Xie's lines, in later times, praised unsurpassed.
Hugging my knees, I brood without a friend;
Receiving verse, my joy finds kinship true.
Ying songs were peerless, beauty without end;
Chu tunes respond, in harmony anew.
Lame, I shame to chase a steed so fleet;
Common wood, forced to the ruler's line.
Blushing when others win the brocade feat;
I'd drink deep, facing Mian Stream with wine.
A parable asks of Xun He's crane;
Yu's strings stir Shen Peng, a soulful strain.
Thus I should while away my mood with verse;
A cloth drum—how could its dull thud disperse?