| 英譯： |
At clear dawn I comb my white hairs,
A taoist priest from Tuan Tu temple comes to call on me.
Gathering up my hair, I call my son to invite him into the room,
In his hand holding a painting of green pines for a screen.
Mysterious, silent and misty the fir-forest on the screen;
For a moment, leaning on the balustrade, I see the red and blue colours disappearing.
Dark cliffs uphold the frosted stems of the pines,
Hanging canopies of pine-needles, leaning back, like writhing dragons.
O, but from my earliest youth I have admired ancient things:
Gazing at this painting I am absorbed in contemplating divine spirits.
Already I know that the painting will always be dear to the celestial priest,
And now all the more I reverence the accomplishments of the artist's heart.
Under the pines are old men, with the same head-cloths and shoes.
They sit together like the old hermits of Mount Shang.
Contemplating ancient times I sing the song of the “Purple Fungus".
The trials of the present time come with a sorrowing wind.
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