| 英譯： |
IN Ch'ang-an city lives a lad of twenty
Whose heart's already so much rotten wood.
The Lanka sutra heaped upon his table,
The Songs of Ch'n piled up beside his elbow.
All his life he's bowed beneath his troubles,
When twilight falls he sips a little wine.
He knows by now the way is blocked to him,
No need to wait until his hair turns white.
CH'EN Shu-sheng!—you too are poor and wretched,
Shabbily clad, toiling at rites and music.
You imitate the style of Yao and Shun,
Despising your fellows for writing decadent prose.
By my brushwood gates, the carriage-ruts ice over,
Elms fling gaunt shadows as the sun goes down.
You come and visit me in the yellow dusk,
Bitter seasons have etched your face with lines.
Mount T'ai-hua soars up forty-thousand feet,
Sundering the earth, it towers above us all.
Not a foot of flat anywhere around it,
It strikes the Ox and Dipper in a single bound.
Though high officials may not sympathize
They cannot put a padlock on my mouth.
For I have taken T'ai-hua as my master,
Ensconced myself there to gaze at the white day.
Frost has warped me into a stunted oak,
Whom kinder weather would make a willow in spring.
The Office of Rites has forced me from my true nature,
I look haggard and worn, like a straw dog cast aside.
In wind and snow, I serve at the Altar of Fasting,
My black belt threaded through a brazen seal.
The work I do is fit only for slaves and bond-maids
Who want no more than to wield a dustpan and brush.
Whenever will the eyes of Heaven be open,
And these antique swords together give a roar?
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