On the river, winter days are short,
Pacing, the thatched hall grows dim.
Wild geese come from the farthest frontier,
A traveler falls ill in a lonely village.
Endlessly, thoughts of return arise,
Sobs give rise to faint chants.
On the chrysanthemum path, the moon is high,
By the tangerine studio, frost already thick.
Meals are coarse vegetables and grain,
History books and labels abundant.
Eyes chilled by pines and osmanthus cold,
Ears noisy with children's rivalry.
Uncork the bottle, green "ants" float,
Test the brush, autumn tip strong.
Daytime doors also doubly barred,
Cold screens reflect each other.
Poetry derives from the Sao and Ya,
Characters corrected towards the lead and wood.
Meeting foes, dance the serpent spear,
In conversation, grasp the rhinoceros-horn hilt.
No fame to rise in the ranks,
Yet have the will to support Xun and Meng.
Upholding the Way, I hope for past worthies,
In writing, connect with ancient sages.
Melancholy has laid waste the long sword,
Haggard, ashamed before the clear mirror.
Only understand the feelings of fish and birds,
How could I know the nature of current customs?
The superficial mostly follow trends,
Old and lazy, I plan no further seeking.
Since I do not strive for others' knowing,
I'm left only to delight in Heaven's decree.
My home is in the fields,
Family affairs bitterly distant and vast.
Farming and sowing have grown slight,
The granary naturally empties.
A sorrowful lapel, wind-blown leaves in disarray,
Sitting alone, lamp sparks burst.
At dawn I'll break into a vast song,
But who will lend even a little ear to listen?