South of the Yellow River, north of Yi Stream's flow,
The Yao's estate is a true den where finest flowers grow.
Since ancient times, how many prodigal sons, proud and vain,
Have buried here bones of countless orioles, all in vain?
The central essence gathered here is rich and rare,
With western grace it blends, a perfect, splendid pair.
Heaven lends it the sun's everlasting light,
While secret veins from water palaces join the river's might.
When spring breeze is like wine, half-intoxicated, slow,
Who told the Grain Rain to announce the time for blooms to show?
At Sima Slope, buds half-open, tender and shy,
Throughout Luoyang City, all people know, far and nigh.
The Yao's lane is crammed with carriages and steeds,
Shoulder to shoulder, crowds below and on the walls it feeds.
Red silks upon the flowers block the very sun,
By emerald curtains near, like mist, the scene is spun.
Jade-faced youths vie to offer tents, a splendid sight,
Broidered-robed lords depart, tossing coins in their flight.
None but says the Yao's peony is beyond compare,
Yet spring's labor consumed is also far from spare.
Long days, warm winds, green tips hang low, a gentle sweep,
Seated golden immortals feel drowsy, about to sleep.
Dough of yeast-dust mixed with sandalwood, fragrant and fine,
How to store it? In dew-receiving plates they shine.
When brocade sheds, its brilliance seems too gaudy, too bright,
Fresh-dyed robes make one wish to ride a phoenix in flight.
Behold this flower, its flesh is full, its form is grand,
Over a foot in height, layers on layers stand.
Its painted face hides deep behind a blue silk screen,
Its precious crown slants down in jade-green mist, serene.
The swaying step-adornment suits the phoenix hairpin well,
With jade rings, rhino pendants, pearls that tinkle and tell.
Why does the emperor's daughter love the Daoist way?
Why need A'Jiao a chamber of gold to sway?
Dark nests piled high shelter young wild geese in rest,
From incense burners, smoke of sandalwood is pressed.
One kind raised to such grace, with lingering charm and air,
A thousand flowers thin out, spring's skin laid bare.
Tall and imposing, one vessel tilts, about to spill,
An overturned cup, hard to tell goblet or cup at will.
Dyed with mermaid silk to seek the truest hue,
Tapped like jade stick, it hopes for palace notes, clear and true.
The Wei's red and the Niu's blue, both famed in their day,
Vied for supremacy, in high style held sway.
Now they bow their heads, content to be outshone,
Among ninety varieties, this stands alone, first known.
This flower should not be like Lady Wu, the fair,
Who left the palace with eyebrows all bare.
Her look desired a fox-like charm, seductive art,
Yet her robes were those of a nun, set apart.
Lady Yang, whose beauty could overthrow a state,
Cast off red jacket, as Taizhen, changed her fate.
The river wished to wet the coil upon her head,
At Mawei, still in her old-time skirt she lay dead.
A thing's color fixed may still leave doubt in mind,
The human heart, more fickle, is hard to find.
Do not judge truth and falsehood in an easy way,
The face may be thus, but the heart may stray.
Have you not seen Laozi and Zhuangzi's deep intent?
Of all things under heaven, guard most against deceit.