I returned as early summer began, just when the plums were turning gold.
I once had two or three friends, and together we wrote poems on the plum's kernel.
Back then beneath the plum tree, we plucked its fruit and pulled its branches.
Yet this thing fit for temple halls was cast aside, perhaps into the mud.
Was it not fit for a plate's offering? Its sourness made it left behind.
Since ancient times, meeting or not meeting fate, the principle of things can be deduced.
In the cool winds of August and September, leaves fall and branches wither.
Though essence is rich within, those who know it are truly few.
And more so within this frame of flesh, to recognize this subtle nature.
Of all who've chanted of the plum through ages, who has grasped this delight?
Benevolence is the heart of heaven and earth, life begetting without end.
This nature of life, each and every thing possesses it.
How can one be like this plum, alone holding a pure yang form?
Each branch a great ultimate, stillness and motion ever following.
Yet between the earth and its return, faintly we see the first signs.
If yin's chill does not gather firm, yang's virtue has no way to spread.
Thus those who seek the plum, their intent always lies here.
On the tenth morning of clear frost, by the verse's edge I raise a new theme.
The plum too looks at me and smiles, smiles at my worldly ways.
Without blossom and without fruit, this state is itself wondrous.
For half a year it asked me not, what words to say when we meet face to face?
Seeing the flower, one then knows the tree; to know its taste, is that not lowly?
I now speak to the plum: why doubt this Way?
To hold one's own is surely its portion; to seek knowledge, is that fitting?
Bo Yi deserved to starve to death; Ji Zi faced the darkening land.
The lad who chewed snow on the sea, the child who trod frost in the wilds.
My intent in coming now, how could common feeling fathom it?
Entering winter, much rain and frost; Dark Force displays its might.
Lovely amidst thorns and brambles, I fear it cannot hold itself.
Those who seek the plum wish it early; I alone wish the plum late.
Before the year's end and after winter, life's force is truly like a thread.
If the faint sun does not cherish it, who now will greet and continue it?
I recall the days of my youth, coming to the capital to see the flowers.
I hired a boat on West Lake, once reached Lone Hill's shore.
Lone Hill I could not go to; Ge Ridge stands lofty and tall.
Jackals and owls were howling and dancing; dragon and phoenix, where did they fly?
Without waiting for the years to change, already I felt the people were not the same.
The recluse immortal I could not rouse; as year waned I simply returned.
Returned now for thirty years, in clear dreams I'm often lingering.
Spring's affairs have their replacements, but the plum's heart does not alter.
Spring light comes year after year, but my hair has early turned gray.
But with the plum I've made a lasting pact; nowhere do I part from it for long.
Wherever I go I must plant plums, diligent in tending and nourishing.
Tending and nourishing, yet I see no flourish; snow presses and frost bullies still.
The climate indeed is often contrary; human affairs also go awry.
Walking on, I go to seek fragrance; three years at the southern sea's border.
Where snow and frost do not reach the ground, life's force should be warm and pleasant.
The place where plums were planted long ago, now even more neglected and untended.
Worse, axes have made them firewood, making one deeply grieve.
I brush my sleeves and return home; heaven's wind blows on my clothes.
South of my house there is an ancient tree, long has it watched the passing years.
Utmost firmness would it accept stain? Utmost purity would it turn black?
Temple halls do not feel high; mountain woods, how can they be called low?
If but the remaining calyx remains, let the Qiang flute blow as it will.
Next year in mist and rain, green fruits will hang in clusters.
And further watch the sprouts and shoots grow; the nature of life is never lacking.
New roots join with old roots, unbroken the engine of life begetting.
The engine of life grows day by day; clear shade gradually forms a path.
From this plant a thousand trees; spring dims, flowers droop in profusion.
The east wind once thaws the ice, ten thousand plants burst in fragrant bloom.