| 英譯： |
In the Royal city spring is almost over:
Tinkle, tinkle the coaches and horsemen pass.
We tell each other : "This is the peony season":
And follow the crowd that goes to the Flower market.
Cheap and dear— no uniform price:
The cost of the plant depends on the number of blossoms.
Sparkling there are hundreds of red blossoms;
Piled up are the clusters of snowy white—
All are protected with an awning spread:
Around is woven a wattle-fence to screen them.
If you sprinkle water and cover the roots with mud,
When they are transplanted, they will not lose their beauty.
Each household thought less follows the custom,
Man by man no one realizing.
There happened to be an old farm labourer
who came by chance that way.
He bowed his heed and sighed a deep sigh:
But this sigh no body understood.
He was thinking. "A cluster of deep-red flowers
Would pay the taxes of ten poor houses."
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