| 英譯： |
Today beneath my northern window
I ask myself what I'm doing there,
But rejoice that I have three friends.
$(Who are my friends?)$
The lute. When it ceases
I take up my wine.
When the cup is empty
I sing poems.
These three friends
Endlessly lead each other on.
A single plucking of the lute-strings
Sets my heart in accord.
One song, and I stretch my four limbs.
Whenever I fear
That lute and song may lack harmony,
I restore their harmony through tipsiness.
How could anyone as stupid as I
Be alone with these blessings?
Many ancients experienced the same.
Among lovers of poetry was Yüan-ming,
Among lovers of lute-playing was Ch'i-chi,
Among lovers of wine was Po-lun,
These three were all my teachers.
They never hoarded rice,
Nor tied their clothes with a harsh cord of rope,
But knew the pleasures of accompanied song, poetry, wine.
0
My three teachers long since have departed
Upon their lofty ways and cannot be followed.
My three friends are so devoted to frolicking
That there's no day that they fail to enjoy themselves.
In my left hand I flourish a cup fashioned in white jade,
In my right I strum with a golden plectrum.
I'm so madly tipsy that I don't fold up the paper
While my racing brush endites wild words.
Who can carry my words expressing gratitude
To my intimate friends?
Even though they may not think me right,
How can they possibly prove me wrong?
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