The poet Bai Ju is a master grand,
His poems fill two ox-loads, books five carts command.
Discussing worldly affairs, he sits picking lice;
A large plaque in his room names 'Listening to Frogs' nice.
I see Dongye bow low in admiration deep,
For three years, the frog-listening debt he couldn't keep.
What charm do frogs hold that you appreciate their sound?
From 'tadpole' to 'frog', they grow in pride profound.
Why not listen to the crimson phoenix on high ridge sing?
Or the crane's cry at Huating, on graceful wing?
He answers: these two creatures appear not oft or near,
But with this frog, I share a sentiment sincere.
In recent years, phoenixes fled from arrows' threat;
They perch on parasol trees, on bamboo they are set.
Sometimes they stretch their beaks to sing at morning sun,
But are struck by evil crows and hawks, victory won.
The crane too flew far back to Liaodong's land,
No chance to approach Huaqing Palace, close at hand.
Even if allowed to cry loud at Nine Marshes' height,
A stray arrow wounds its wing, grieving Heaven's might.
Better just listen to the frogs' croaking sound,
It calls back dreams, awakes the spring pond early found.
Even if kingfishers perch on orchid and reed,
It surpasses crickets' chirp in dewy grass, indeed.
Prince Wang shakes his head, saying it's not so,
Your grace and bearing are like an immortal's glow.
A rich family's son is like a young phoenix rare;
How can our Way remain long in hardship and despair?
It's fine to wait a little, two or three years more,
Then one cry will startle all, as you through heavens soar.
The writhing crowd of frogs deserves no pity's call,
Leave them in official ponds, let them chirp and brawl.