The Han palace, a golden house;
The Wu court, a chamber of brocade.
Lascivious verses of Jingwan spread;
New tunes confirm the allure.
The arrow's sound lingers in fading dreams;
The tally's report announces early court.
Vividly facing the dawn sun;
Turning, passing the spring night.
Half-sleeves veil the clear mirror;
Forehead threads weigh down the kingfisher hairpin.
In stillness, as if awaiting something;
In utter leisure, as if with no purpose.
The flowers at Zize are still full;
The willows at Linghe have not yet shed.
The screen darkens the Wu Gorge rain;
The panel blocks the Zhejiang tide.
I doubt Pan Yue's fame as a mountain;
I suspect Shi Chong's surname is Xiao.
The water clock stops for a song;
The lamp is trimmed often for the rain.
Drinking wine, we finish the three elegant cups;
Playing pitch-pot, we vie with a hundred beauties.
The cicada hairpin's new wings are heavy;
The golden duck censer's old scent is burnt.
The water, clear, seems a purified silk;
The lone rosy cloud aspires to be a marker.
Parting follows the urgent Qin zither notes;
Sorrow becomes the slender Shu strings.
Xuan Yan cannot cure paralysis;
Lin Qiong only induces headaches.
Composing linked verse, we seek the weak catkins;
Longing for friends, we sing of the sweet banana.
The Wang clan pities the various Xies;
Lord Zhou surely won the young Qiao.
The embroidered curtain raises a colorful pheasant;
The wave fan paints a patterned manta.
Dense duckweed hinders fishing;
The tilting lotus wishes to cross the bridge.
If not for this narrow strip of water,
Who would perceive the road so long?