The study window charms in secluded solitude, / A myriad bamboos are truly my exemplar.
Though frost and ice flourish to blight and break, / The vital force has its own season.
Elegant and winding, they play with the moon's shade; / Tall and straight, they stand out in graceful posture.
The phoenix's chant follows the dense spirit's gloom; / Spring bamboo shoots offer their rare treasure.
The mountain woods are soaked with nourishing rain; / The soil's veins grow moist and rich.
The startling thunder shakes the hibernating serpents; / A thousand roots sprout forth in unison.
Bursting buds carry pearly dew; / The earth cracks open like a hidden turtle's shell.
Opening the window, I see them arrayed in rows; / Silky shoots emerge, supporting the wormwood.
Some struggle hard to avoid rocks; / Some strive vigorously to cluster by the fence.
Dense like antlers of river deer; / Layered like the hide of tigers and leopards.
The earth's strength can no longer restrain them; / Heaven's work also does not delay.
Their ambition soars to the azure clouds; / Their moral integrity rivals that of Bo Yi.
How could they be offered as mere clear wine? / They are only fit for pure poetry.
Calling the lad to stealthily take a small one, / Not daring to speak of gluttonous hunger.
Keeping the sheath to preserve its whole truth, / I boil it swiftly in bubbling water.
With two or three kindred souls, / A cup of wine is kept for the evening glow.
The brocade sheath is removed from its layered wraps; / The jade slip joins my teacher's company.
As if moved by compassionate pity, / It truly comforts the liver and spleen.
Almost stolen by the forces of creation, / Why must the neighbor's child peep?
Building a bridge fulfills a winding intent; / Boiling the bamboo mat—what folly is this?
Only by building thick walls, / And erecting a fence many yards high,
Can they be protected into jade-green bamboos, / Everlasting like children of ice and jade.
I've heard northerners say / Their price in Luoyang is not low.
A thousand in gold buys but a bundle, / Yet they turn their heads, still doubtful.
The south indeed abounds in these, / Yet our kind remains bitterly unaware.
A child goes into the mountains knee-high, / And returns in a moment with eaves full.
Made into soup, richer than vegetables; / Taken to market, cheap as mud.
How dare we be so wasteful? / Only because we do not reflect.
In the days before Suiren, / The pure customs were not yet diluted.
In the world, pearls were bartered for magpies; / Under heaven, phoenixes were treated as chickens.
The south possesses this very treasure, / Yet southerners alone are lost in confusion.
At dawn, chanting Tao Yuanming's chrysanthemums; / At night, reciting the ferns of Shouyang.
Remote, the ancients and moderns; / None remain who know virtue's rarity.