Two cypress trees before my study, vast, each trunk ten arm-spans round.
When first I built my house, I set my hopes on this pair I found.
One stood beside the northern arbor, close at hand,
The other near the southern fence, a guardian of the land.
Ten paces lay between them, yet in summer's heat, no scorching glare.
My father oft came strolling here, his face serene, without a care.
Kin and followers gathered round, some drinking wine, some chanting verse.
Guests who visited this spot would smile, their spirits to immerse.
Through springs of peach and plum, they stood, unchanged by fashion's sway.
Bitter frost and snow assailed, yet never turned their hues to gray.
I knew their steadfast, stalwart nature, awe-inspiring, stern and true.
How could one foresee the change this autumn brought, when I from capital withdrew?
Mourning my parent in rough garb, my breath caught, my strength near gone,
I saw the southern fence-tree, bare and brittle, all its verdure drawn.
Pacing beneath the cypress tree, all day I sighed with heavy heart.
My family then spoke to me, 'The tree has long been dead, apart
From this past spring and summer's turn, when the old master first did see
Its state, and felt both grief and love, unwilling to fell such a tree.
He thought perhaps the soil was poor, an unfit place for it to stand,
A timber fit for beams and pillars, why should it die in barren land?'
Long did he ponder this, my son, could you fully understand?
Hearing these words, I could not hold my streaming tears in check.
Was it just for this small garden to lose a hardy form, a wreck?
I see Heaven and humankind in answer echo, clear and sure:
As the giant cypress died in summer, so the wise man falls, mature.
Does not this plainly tell us that signs and types are never late?
Thus the old man faced this sight, and tears streamed down to mourn its fate.
A great hall's building needs more than a single beam to rise.
Why must such timber meet its end, its strength unused, its worth demise?
Lush and thick the shrubs that sprout, but coarse and low their stature lies.
The locust, old, not ten feet tall, bares its belly, fears the skies.
A plot of chrysanthemums eastward cannot morning hunger sate.
Nine fields of orchids planted vainly cannot match the weeds' low state.
Soughing, several bamboo poles, hollow within, what can they create?
Other flowers, trees aside, no need to compare which is great.
Like a unicorn that loses its marsh, nags race in frantic chase.
Phoenixes soar to heights supreme, why peer at nest or egg's base?
Long has my heart been weighed with thought, recounting pains, my words efface.
Withered cypress, oh withered cypress, you too should ponder in this space.