| 英譯： |
THE universe is but the lodging-house of all things
visible; light and darkness are the passing guests of
Time. Life is but a dream, with little joy therein; and
the ancients did well in seeking to lengthen their days by
stealing some hours from the night.
And now the blooming spring beckons me with ver-
dant hand, while nature's wealth of eloquence lures me
forth,—forth to the fragrant bower of peach and plum,
to the joy of reunion with friends. There they meet,
my gentle, matchless brothers; and I, the poor poet,
unworthy to be their mate. Then, ere the first thrill
passes away, comes flow of subtle wit, and the feast
spread, while couched upon flowers, amid flashing cups,
we drink deep draughts to the moon. And as, without
the solace of composition, there is no outlet for the
pent-up soul, it was ruled that he who did not contri-
bute his verse should suffer the penalty of the “Golden
Valley”
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