Gleaming white frost in the garden lies,
Fresh and bright, by the steps, chrysanthemums rise.
Since the solstice passed, ten days have fled;
Now this fragrance stands in solitude, widespread.
Is it the season's doing, after all,
That winter's chill has not yet made its call?
Or does each life possess its destined fate,
With glory and decay, early or late?
How can this delicate, tender form
Stand firm as pine and bamboo in the storm?
Its verdant leaves in lush profusion grow,
Its golden blooms in endless sequence show.
To trace its source, we find the reason clear:
Care and nurture bring fortune here.
To ward off pests, we guide the children's hand;
To cut the weeds, the field servants stand.
Fear the weak stem? We prop it with a stay;
Worry of dryness? Water it each day.
The north wind's blocked by fences dense and tight;
The morning sun lends leftover warmth and light.
No bees or butterflies can steal its grace,
No fowl can trample on its dwelling place.
Thus it preserves its heaven-given might,
And in deep winter still remains fragrant and bright.
One watering ensures a later withering—
Ji Kang's discourse firmly stresses this thing.
Mencius also sighed, as records tell,
For the bare, denuded Ox Mountain fell.
Why should this truth for things alone hold true?
In humans, careful nurturing is due.
Guard joints from illness, keep the body sound;
First drive out cravings that within are found.
What's nourished should be heavier than the heart,
Not merely mouth and belly, set apart.
What's trodden should be upright on the Way,
Not merely perilous and crooked sway.
Let not vain splendors wage an inner fight;
Banish all envy and malicious spite.
Naturally, harmony will come to dwell,
And long life follows, free from sudden knell.
Hold fast to this principle of life's care,
And you may follow where the ancient pines dare.
Moved, I compose this poem on the cold chrysanthemum;
May its floating blossoms not pass for common custom.