| 英譯： |
Liao-ling, sheer patterned silk—what is it like?
Not like poorer silks, lo, shao, wan, or chi,
that leaps in the moonlight of Mount T'ien-t'ai;
but the forty-five-foot waterfall
woven with wonderful designs:
on a ground clothed in white mist, clustered snowflake flowers.
Who does the weaving, who wears the robe?
A poor woman in the glens of Yüeh, a lady in the palace of Han.
Last year eunuch envoys relayed the royal wish:
patterns from heaven to be woven by human hands,
woven with flights of autumn geese clearing the clouds,
dyed with hue of spring rivers south of the Yangtze,
cut broad for making cloak sleeves, long for sweeping skirts,
hot irons to smooth the wrinkles, scissors to trim the seams,
rare colors, strange designs that shine and recede again,
patterns to be seen from every angle, patterns never in response.
For dancing girls of Chao-yang, token of profoundest favor,
one set of spring robes worth a thousand in gold—
to be stained in sweat, rouge-soiled, never worn again,
dragged on the ground, trampled in mud—who is there to care?
The liao-ling weave takes time and toil,
not to be compared to common tseng or po;
thin threads endlessly plied, till the weaver's fingers ache;
clack-clack the loom cries a thousand times but less than a foot is done.
You singers and dancers of the Chao-yang Palace,
could you see her weaving, you'd pity her too!
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