| 英譯： |
PADDY fields at Ch'ang-ku, in the fifth month,
A shimmer of green just tops the level water.
Distant hills rise towering, crag on crag,
I grieve for their crumbling green, fearing they'll fall.
Dazzling and pure, no thoughts of autumn yet,
A cool wind from afar ruffles this beauty.
The bamboos' fragrance fills this lonely place,
Each powdered node is streaked with emerald.
The long-haired grass lets fall its mournful tresses,
A bright dew weeps, shedding its secret tears.
Tall trees form a bright and winding tunnel,
A scented track where fading reds sway drunkenly.
Swarms of insects carve at the ancient willows,
Cicadas cry from high sequestered spots.
Long belts of yellow arrowroot are dangling;
Purple rushes criss-cross narrow shores.
Stones coined with moss lie strewn about in heaps,
Plump leaves are growing in glossy clusters.
Level and white are the wave-washed sands,
Where horses stand branded with green characters.
At evening, fishes dart around joyfully,
A lone, lean crane stands stock-still in the dusk.
Down in their damp, mole-crickets chirp away.
A muted spring wells up with startled splash.
Crooked and winding, Jade Purity Road,
Where the Spirit Maiden dwells among orchid blossoms.
Cotton-moss winds around the stones in the stream,
Crimson and purple, mountain fruits hang down.
Small cypresses with leaves like layers of fans,
Plump pines oozing essence of cinnabar.
A singing stream runs on melodiously,
Catalpas on its banks droop glowing grain.
An oriole chants the song of a girl from Min,
A waterfall unrolls like satin from Ch'u.
Wind and dew bring smiles or sorrow to flowers
That blossom or wither among the lines of caves.
Tangled branches leap from the stony heights,
Small-throated birds chatter by an island spring,
The feet of the sun have swept away all shadows,
New-risen clouds open their ornate deeps.
Silent and still, these oppressive summer days,
Yet a west wind whispers of a cooling air.
His face, nurtured on jade, is stilled in sleep.
Burns fragrant olive on the Heavenly Table.
Her robes of mist are fluttering in the night,
He drowses on Her altar, pure of dreams.
The roosting simurghs grow old, awaiting the Emperor’s carriage,
The pepper-walls of the ancient palace are ruined.
Yet several of the bells still tinkle faintly,
Arousing this wandering courtier to desolate thoughts.
Dark creepers twine about the scarlet keys,
In dragon-curtains lurk the mountain trolls.
Flowering tamarisk clings to emerald brocades,
These scented quilts served nobles long since dead.
No songs now stir the dust on wormy beams.
Where dancers' silk is festooned like long clouds,
This precious land is cut in broidered pieces,
Our villagers prize truth and righteousness.
No sound of pestles is heard when calamity comes,
No evil rites are used to drive off plagues.
The fish-skinned oldsters, virtuous and kind,
The horn-haired children, modest, quick to shame.
The county justices have nothing to do,
No loud-mouthed tax collectors call on us,
In bamboo groves we find our writing paper,
Our stony streams attract the hook and line.
Winding rivers girdle us with water,
Banana leaves curl round like paper from Shu,
Light from the peaks is a dazzling crepe collar.
Scenery savoured alone brushes away my cares.
Our fountains run with the wine of Governor T'ao,
Our maids moon-browed, like Master Hsieh's singing-girl.
Away in the distance booms a lonely bell,
High in the sky, wings a solitary bird.
Rose-mist pinnacles, blood-red towering peaks,
Perilous torrents roaring as they contend.
A pale moth floating in an emerald calm,
A veiled moon saddened by a hint of shadow.
Its chilly light flows over streams and shores,
Among these hills, my thoughts grow infinite.
The fisherman's boy lowers his nets at night,
Frosty birds soar up on misty wings.
On the pool's mirror, slippery spittle of dragons,
And floating pearls spat out by fishes at play.
Wind in the jasper-cased lutes of t'ung trees,
Envoys of firefly-stars to the Brocade City.
The willows let long, light green sashes fall,
Bamboos aquiver are short flutes playing.
Round the foot of the rocks, green mosses creep,
Reed-shoots are peering from the cinnabar pond.
While tossing whirlpools sport with the shadows of sky,
The hands of ancient junipers grasp the clouds.
The mournful moon is curtained with red roses,
Thorns of the fragrant creeper catch at the clouds.
The bearded wheat lies level for hundreds of leagues,
Leisured carriages in front of a thousand shops.
This man from Ch'eng-chi, now a servant of others,
Would like to emulate Master Wine-sack's ways.
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