Last year, frost touched my temples;
This year, my beard is streaked with snow.
Seasons pass like scales in order,
Past and present fly in goose-file.
Gan Ying reached the Western Sea's end,
Forty thousand miles to Luoyang.
The southeast I have seen myself,
The north's wilds can be reckoned too.
Mid-picture, ten thousand states lie,
Each corner chess-pieces squared off.
Earth stubborn, pressed but yields no hole;
Sky vast, age-old but never stiff.
Count on fingers a million ages—
Passing swift as thunderclaps.
Human life falls within this span—
What then marks Peng Zu's long life?
Tight-bound, we tie ourselves in knots;
Confucian robes are loose and long.
I passed a flag-inn in the snow,
Dared to ask the tavern maid.
I love Lord Li the Chamberlain—
Towering, over seven feet.
His bow, eight-wrapped with white feathers,
Thigh-pressed green sandalwood spear.
Before the wind he sketched a line,
Purple beard parted at both sides.
Ten thousand tiger-warriors west of Huai—
Glaring eyes dared not face him.
Merit done, feasted in Linde Hall;
Apes leap, falcons sweep the wide polo field.
Three thousand palace maids turned heads;
Crowding, trampling paired bright ear-pendants.
Banner poles lofty, flags fluttering—
In high spirits, whip across, he returned home.
I love the Recluse Master Zhu—
In the heart of the Three Wu lands.
A hundred acres of bending rice,
Half-yellowed by the west wind.
Enough to sustain the village folk,
Not just fill granaries full.
Behind, blue ridges lush and thick;
Before, green streams wide and deep.
At misty dawn, ducks and geese rise;
At day's end, cattle and sheep descend.
Uncles and in-laws wish to drink with me—
Come taste the village festival jug.
Elder sister's child wishes to return—
There too is pot-brew to share.
West path winds down willow groves;
East lane circles lotus ponds.
Kin and blood-relations dwell here—
Hearth-smoke seen from afar.
The governor's rule flows like water;
The local chief is greedy as a wolf.
Once taxes and levies are done—
Let you survive or perish as you may.
I once visited his chamber—
Feathered grace, like phoenix and crane soaring.
Crossing over clear flowing streams,
Bamboo shades his lute and books by the bed.
His speech never vulgar or trite—
Yao, Shun, Yu, Wu, and Tang.
Asked, 'The Son of Heaven is young now—
Who will be the pillars and beams?'
I said, 'The Son of Heaven is sage—
Duke of Jin upholds the law.
Allied troops, hundreds of thousands,
Along the seas suppress the rebels.
They speak of great righteousness over small wrong—
Taking the easy like rolling a mat, like probing a bag.
Rhinoceros-armored Wu soldiers fight with bows;
Snake-spears, Yan halberds race with sharp blades.
Who knew three years, hundreds of battles—
Hook-carts could not reach their walls.'
He replied, 'Beyond these mountains,
Matters akin to Hu and Qiang.
Who will lead the state to quell revolt—
Speak of it to the fishing old man.'
South of the stream, I turned back again—
A path out through tall bamboos.
Thirteen years have passed since then—
That man I have not forgotten.
Often I stroke myself and sigh—
Tears fall, spirit vast and dim.
The Censor's decree sent me to Luoyang—
How reckless were my steps!
At the palace gate, a remonstrator's task—
Presented memorials, no literary art.
Sought monks to interpret troubling dreams;
Begged wine to ease a sorrowing gut.
Not for wife and children's sake—
Not yet gone to hide in hills and woods.
All my life, a five-colored thread—
I wish to mend the robes of Shun.
With music teach Yan and Zhao;
Orchids bathe He and Huang.
Rank stench swept clean away—
Fierce and cruel all repelled.
People just eat and sleep—
Land of longevity, rich farms and mulberries.
Alone I chant, my will is here—
I myself laugh at the absurd.
River commandery, rain just cleared—
A good knife slices autumn light.
By the pond, I drink alone—
Holding my nose, chrysanthemum branches fragrant.
Mellow and drunk, I sing again the Peace Song—
Benevolent, sage Son of Heaven, longevity without end.