Eaves willows first yellow, swallows newly hatched,
Morning's green, lush and tender, passes light rain.
Tree hues deeply hold the mood of terraces and towers,
Orioles' songs deftly play host to misty blossoms.
The brocade-robed lord sets out cups and goblets,
Uncorks a hundred vats of fragrant spring wine.
Entering the gate, dismounting, asking who is within,
Descending steps, clasping hands, ascending the splendid hall.
The beauty of Linqiong with brows like distant hills,
Holds a pipa low, harboring mournful thoughts.
The north wind winds round my fingers, I laugh first,
The bright moon enters your bosom, you know it well.
I urge you, spare not the golden goblet of wine,
Youth is fleeting, like turning over a hand.
Toiling to old age, admiring a simple bowl and gourd—
What, in the end, does it have to do with me?
Lu Tong of Luoyang, famed in the study,
His wife's feet worn, pounding yellow grain.
The aged Guang Yan cannot read a word,
Yet commands heroes as if driving sheep.
A heavenly rhinoceros crushes the crimson mole-rat,
Auspicious brocade startles the golden phoenix in flight.
The rest—are they even worth wetting one's teeth?
What talent can one use to repay the Son of Heaven?
The nag hangs its head, battling the dusky dust,
The steed travels a thousand miles in a single day.
Yet there are only reclusive, drunken sojourners,
Chin propped, eyes wide, holding cups of rosy cloud.
Fearing only that southern winds and rain may fall,
Laying waste the pear blossoms on the jade-green moss.