| 英譯： |
To Cheng-tu lo! as greeting a New Year verse I send.
Ah, pity him who from his home a banished age must spend!
The fresh green shoots of willow I cannot bear to see.
The plum trees full of blossom my very vitals rend.
As Perfect here in Szechwan I have no grasp of things.
With thousand fears and worries my anxious duty stings.
This New Year we are distant far; I merely dream of you.
But who can tell if next year another meeting brings?
Like him who on the Eastern Hills for thirty years had slept
Perchance from age my book and sword to scattered dust have crept.
Two thousand piculs salary although my dotage win,
Ah! had I only, free as you, my power of roaming kept!
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