The orchid grows deep in the woods, unseen, yet its fragrance spreads.
If a heavenly steed were kept in a stable, a nag would daily gain more speed.
The orchid's growth mirrors a scholar's learning, not for office but for truth.
The steed's confinement is like self-indulgence; once lost, it's lost forever.
Why do I speak of this now? Thinking of you, I cannot delay.
When first I met you, I loved your refined bearing.
And reading the poems you wrote, I found them often surpassing the best.
As we grew familiar and talked, you bowed low as if seeking guidance.
Delighted to help perfect talent, I promptly offered ancient verses.
They spoke of lofty ambition and vigor, mingled with struggles for wealth and rank.
Hoping to stir your desire, I aimed to spur your diligence.
Still fearing my request was not earnest enough, I worried you might not trust my depth.
Sweating, I penned my reply; braving rain, I went to deliver it myself.
At first, I rejoiced in your reading, as if a bow had found its arrow.
How then do you answer my poem, so suddenly contradicting what came before?
I began to accept your thanks, yet it felt like answering a pheasant's scent.
In all endeavors seeking achievement, one must decide like the swift gibbon.
If one advances only to retreat, why start like a mouse from its hole?
I've seen men waste themselves, but never a plowed field yield no harvest.
If you resolve firmly and add diligent effort,
Stone is worn by dripping water, and wood is bent by persistent pressure.
Greatness can enter the sage's realm, the middling can tread the garden of worthies.
Even if one falls short of that, still knowledge and insight will be rich.
What lies within me cannot be stopped; in myself, I feel no guilt.
Already lost, I cannot recover; I fear you will settle for mediocrity.
Hear me and do not turn away—these words, will they not be spoken again?