| 英譯： |
AT Chin Ling, the tavern where travellers part is called the Rest-House of Deep Trouble.
The creeping grass spreads far, far, from the roadside where it started.
There is no end to the ancient sorrow, as water flows to the East.
Grief is in the wind of this place, burning grief in the white aspen.
Like K’ang Lo I climb on board the dull travelling boat.
I hum softly “On the Clear Streams Flies the Night Frost.”
It is said that, long ago, on the Ox Island Hill, songs were sung which blended the five colours.
Now do I not equal Hsieh, and the youth of the House of Yüan?
The bitter bamboos make a cold sound, swaying in the Autumn moonlight.
I pass the night alone, desolate behind the reed-blinds, and dream of returning to my distant home.
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