| 英譯： |
ONLY when autumn comes to Chao-kuan,
Will you know how cold it is up here in Chao.
I tied this letter to a short-feathered summons,
Cut out a long screed for a recital of woes.
Through the clear dawn I slumbered in my sickness,
While the sparse plane-trees cast fresh emeralds down.
The city crows cried from white battlements,
Military bugles saddened the mist in the reeds.
With turban askew, I lifted the silken curtains,
In dried-up pools the broken lotus lay.
On the wooden window, traces of silver picture,
On the stone steps water had left its coins.
The traveller's wine caught at my ailing lungs,
While songs of parting rose from languid strings.
I scaled this poem with a double string of tears,
And culled a single orchid wet with dew.
The sedge is growing old, the cricket weeping,
While broken gargoyles peer from withered pines.
Waking, I sit astride a horse from Yen,
Dreaming, I voyage on a boat through Ch'u.
Pepper and cinnamon poured above long mats!
Perch and bream sliced up on tortoise-shell!
Surely you can't forget the roads leading home,
To spend your youth on river-girdled isles?
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