| 英譯： |
WHO can he be, this sad and lonely man,
Who's come to suffer autumn in Ch'ang-an?
As a young man I knew a traveller's sorrow,
Wept in my sleep until my hair turned white.
I feed my skinny nag on mouldy hay,
As gusts of rain splash in the chilly gutters.
The Southern Palace is darkened by ancient blinds,
Its sundials blank beneath a watery sun.
My mountain home's a thousand leagues away,
East of here, at the very foot of the clouds.
Sleeping in sorrow, my sword-case as my pillow,
In this makeshift room I dream of a marquisate.
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