| 英譯： |
THIS talented man from Wu-hsing Resents the winds of spring.
Peach blossom burgeons over the roads— A thousand leagues of red!
With purple reins and a snapped bamboo On a small piebald nag,
He's riding home to Ch'ien-t'ang— East, then east again.
From criss-cross shoots of white rattan, His book-basket was woven.
Short bamboo-slips, all of a length, Like Buddhist texts.
His flashing strength, his precious ore, Offered to Spring Officials.
He skimmed the waves beneath the mist, Riding a single leaf.
The Spring Officials garner talent Wherever the white sun shines,
But threw away this yellow gold, Let slip this dragon-horse.
So satchel in hand, he returned to the River, Back through his gates,
Weary and worn — yet who was there To give him sympathy?
I hear a brave man always treasures His heart and his bones.
Three times that ancient ran away, Yet never lost his head.
I beg you now to wait till dawn Before you ply your whip.
Your carriage will come back one day To the tune of autumn pipes.
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