| 英譯： |
COILED clouds above our fields,
A soughing wind.
Ears of wheat like brushes, Millet like corn.
For every old man in the Pass A hundred jackets,
Officials cast of the Pass Never shout for taxes.
Strong, young oxen plough in spring The rich, black earth.
Bullrushes grow in thick clusters By veins of water.
Since they have courteously Returned our land-tax,
We can spend a hundred cash On strolling lute-players.
We roam in springs' radiance, White flowers on the hillsides,
Burn incense in the wild woods, Call spirits down to the mats.
We worship the spirits to win long life For the Emperor,
Till the thread of the Seven Stars snaps And the Moon Goddess dies.
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