Once by Shenqiu's gate we dwelt, a stone's throw apart.
Through overgrown paths, our staffs and shoes linked heart to heart.
Years have passed since leaving Ying, yet I dream of its lake.
Your humble lane suits you well, no move you need to make.
I recall last spring's breeze, when you planted peach and plum.
In two years they should bloom, this autumn fruit will come.
Five of us were born together, now one serves the state.
The rest have come of age, who's most learned, early or late?
Your graceful daughter in arms, the eldest has grown teeth.
How many thriving babes now follow, full of health?
Guling's fine fields and gardens, in past years left untamed.
With diligent tillage, yields in countless measures famed.
I once helped plan your household, managing its core.
To fill the purse with coin, and granary with more.
Enough for rites and winters, clothes and food so fine.
Since then I shun the crowd, behind closed doors recline.
Not coveting great wealth like Tao Zhu or Zi Gong.
A shared resolve proved hard, till now who's carried on?
You lack not gourd and ladle, nor flavors sweet and strong.
Southern winds are fickle, slanderous tongues are long.
I've heard the village youths demand exacting grace.
You followed Duan Gan's path, could you escape disgrace?
Also at the archery range, you often stepped aside.
Speaking of worldly toil, you vowed no more to strive.
Adversity and success share one gate, one source.
Withdrawal or service are but parts of one life's course.
To understand life's flow is to follow heaven's way.
Partial wisdom serves the self, leading mind astray.
I wonder why you're not at ease, still tossed by joy and gloom.
Recently an amnesty raised worthy men from gloom.
Should the virtuous roll up? Let it start with our own.
A man transforms like dragon; ends only when he's gone.
Explore a cave, catch a tiger; shout, the owl yields to the pheasant.
How can one stay confined, in silent reeds so pleasant?
I, a guest of lords, am stuck in rustic lands.
Documents pile before me, no chant of classic strands.
Times favor soaring swans, I'm ashamed among the ants.
The craftsman grieves his axe, the singer mourns lost chants.
Without your boundless grace, who'd trim my wild rants?
My mind feels like a hangover, turbid, hard to cleanse.
My bow often misses geese, my hook catches carp, hence.
This letter's sent with reason; cherish not silk or page.