| 英譯： |
SADDLES of his well-fed greys
Gleaming with gold,
Silken jacket really reeking
Of dragon-brain,
Lovely girls all over him,
Jade goblets flying—
'He's a real swell, isn't he!'
The poor exclaim.
In a tall tower that he's built
By green bamboo-grass,
He hauls red fish from a deep pool
On silken lines.
Sometimes he sprawls— half drunk, of course—
Among his flowers,
Or brings the birds down on the wing
With golden bolts.
'I've never been any man's guest!' he brags,
'In my born days.
Three hundred gorgeous girls I've got,
Or maybe more.
How can he know that among the farmers
Tilling our fields,
No girls are left to weave the cloth
For dunning tax-collectors!
Piling up gold, heaping up jade,
He boasts his noble blood,
Bowing to strangers as he goes,
Putted up with pride.
He hasn't read more than half a line,
Since he was born.
But bought high office for himself
With gleaming gold.
How can a young man hope to stay
Forever young,
When even ocean waves must change
To mulberry fields?
Quick as an arrow, fortune turns,
To misery,
Will the Creator shower his favours
Only on you?
Don't think the sunny days of spring
Will last till late—
For white hair and a haggard face
Are lying in wait!
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