You live by Jing River's shore,
I dwell where Wuyi's winding paths explore.
Our lives like horse and ox, by wind apart,
How many roads and passes keep us distant in our heart?
Meeting, our feelings kindle, close and dear,
Choosing a home, glad to be neighbors near.
Uncapping the carriage, a bright smile we share,
As if old friends we'd always been, beyond compare.
Your household, righteous, gathers five hundred souls,
In hall, harmonious, serving sweet and wholesome goals.
Collecting ten thousand books, you speak not of need,
Caring for widows, orphans, with diligent deed.
My lonely state is much like yours, I own,
Since I departed, who has cared for my own?
Year's end, reunion still beyond my reach,
Touching my breast at events, shame does increase.
You know I'm kept a guest, and think of me,
When meeting, always set fine meals with glee.
Our hearts lay bare their cores, in shared accord,
With wine and talk of letters, days we've poured.
From ancient Ling's good family, a fine descendant,
Seeing your noble brow, I know a Li transcendent.
Learned and widely read, rare in this age to find,
In moments, dragon-snake scripts fly from your mind.
I'm shamed, my learning falls far short of you two,
Yet both of you show kindness, deep and true.
Friendship's affection groups by kindred soul,
I'm ashamed, wormwood joined to orchid's whole.
I often fear this present heart of mine,
Might change to sweetened wine, a baser sign.
I wish you'd hold this heart, serene and clear,
As autumn river water, calm and sheer.
The ancients' heart-friendship prized the moral way,
Today's profit-friendship values power's sway.
The ancient path, how desolate now it seems,
My heart grieves, not knowing ancient friendship's themes.
Both you, in quality, are fine gold refined,
A hundred smelts won't change, but brighter shine.
Both you, in nature, are like flawless jade,
Massive and thick, in jewel-caskets laid.
Above, they match the lone pine on the cliff, a thousand years old,
Below, the ample mountain's frosty bell, for a hundred ages told.
The pine's green hue unchanged through seasons four,
The bell's clang once stirs culture to its core.
What man am I, to cling to a steed's tail?
Striving hard, dare I let my efforts fail?
At dusk, I sing long the "Cutting Wood" verse,
Repeating thrice the poet's polishing, to rehearse.