Under spring eaves, snow melts, the sun grows long,
Curtain flowers press deep, plum shadows sweet.
The beauty wakes from noon sleep in her bed,
Hairpins askew, locks loose, too tired to neat.
Her patterned window veiled in gauzy green,
She lies and plucks the ancient zither, black.
Sleeves pushed back slightly, jade-like fingers seen,
Learning Liangzhou's tune, first time on track.
She lightly sweeps the strings, two notes or three,
I ask if she has mastered the song's art.
Whether she has or not, don't ask of me,
Just listen to the murmuring from her heart.
Seven strings resemble a scorched qin's frame,
Wild geese in flight, they rise and fall in line.
Left hand weaves threads like Weaving Maid's own claim,
Right hand wields a fairy's staff divine.
Light plucks, shallow sweeps, notes short and long,
Now fast, now slow, now loud, now soft, now high.
Like bottle-flute or earthworm's muffled song,
Or cloud-chariot grinding up the sky.
Two dragons chant in autumn water at dawn,
A lone phoenix grieves in spring breeze, mirror-bound.
Clear gibbons cry among ten thousand pines,
Young orioles stir 'neath flowers on the ground.
All my life, my ears have loved this sound,
Hands cannot play, but heart is wide awake.
Save for high mountains and the flowing stream,
Lute and konghou are but a dull mistake.
In tower, Jade Maid played flute with her mate,
Learning the phoenix's speech on Cinnabar Hill.
Phoenix, oh phoenix, will you come or wait?
Where does Xiao Shi ride clouds, his skill to fill?