| 英譯： |
Eighth year, twelfth month,
fifth day: thick-falling snow,
bamboo and cypress all felled by the cold-
what then of people with no clothes?
Look around the village-
of ten houses, eight or nine poor.
North wind sharp as a sword-
plain cloth and padding can't shield the body;
nothing to do but burn weeds and brambles,
sit huddled all night, waiting for dawn.
Now I know that years of bitter cold
bring suffering to farm folk most of all.
And I reflect how I myself passed these days,
snug in a thatched hall, gate shut,
in woolens and furs, under silk coverlets,
sitting, lying down, warmth overflowing;
happily spared the ache of hunger and cold,
what's more, no need to work the fields.
Thinking of those others, I'm filled with shame,
ask myself what kind of man I am.
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