Xia Du's village garden is ancient,
Spring sounds weep around the house.
Quiet thoughts are long and bitter,
A petty official, at odds with life.
North of the palace's thousand gates,
West of South Mountain's Wu Valley.
Leaning on the river, red-leafed ridge,
Connecting temples, green willow dike.
Vast wilds, a crane tilts its head in frost,
Clear pool, a pheasant dances in brocade.
Waves startle, piling ten thousand peaks,
Boats hasten, turning a thousand streams.
Eyebrow dots, daylily buds tender,
Windy strands, willow curtains confuse.
Shore vines, tips like viper tails,
Sand islets, prints of fawn hooves.
Fire licks the Xiang peach orchard,
Wave light, emerald embroidered fields.
Sun traces bind the green cliffs,
Pond shadows fall as a bright rainbow.
Snail walls, mottled with lichen stains,
Silver mats, cardamom mud.
Cave clouds form in fragments,
Mossy paths wind high and low.
Reclining, old Pine Lord,
Strict and orderly, bamboo array.
Little lotus girl about to speak,
Hidden bamboo shoots, tender, hand in hand.
Han lodge leaves remaining traces,
Zhou terrace links to old paths.
Coiled dragon ridge faintly seen,
Striped pheasant grass lush and green.
Aged trees, vines twist like ribbons,
Deep cliffs, stones open like doors.
Invading the window, purple osmanthus thrives,
Brushing the face, green birds perch.
Plans exist, but the official hat will hang unused,
No talent, the brush is idly lifted.
Why have I dirtied myself so much?
Don't laugh at the ram butting the fence.