| 英譯： |
STONE-CUTTERS of Tuan-chou, subtle as spirits,
Trod the sky, hewed purple clouds with polished knives.
How true they trimmed the well of stone That brims to its lips,
Darkly soaked with cold stains— Blood of Ch'ang-hung.
Silken curtains warm in daytime, Ink-flowers in spring,
A floating froth in airy bubbles Fragrant with pine and musk.
Ink dry or oily, thick or thin, Its feet stand firm.
Just a few inches of autumn sunshine That dusk cannot touch.
Often the round brush whispers on The stone, forever new.
Master K'ung's ink-stone, broad and stubborn, Was no match for this.
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