| 英譯： |
Today below north window
I ask myself
what I'm doing there.
Rejoicing that I've got three friends.
Who are those friends?
The lute—when it ends
I take up wine.
When the wine ends
I then sing poems.
The three friends
lead one another on
without cease.
One pluck of the lute strings
and my heart is in accord,
one song
and I stretch my four limbs.
If I fear
that lute and poem
are out of harmony
then through tipsiness
I secure their reunion.
How can one dull as I
be the only one with these likings?
Many ancients were like this too.
Loving poetry there was Yüan-ming,
loving the lute there was Ch'i-chi,
loving wine there was Po-lun,
three men all my Teachers.
They never stored rice,
tied their clothes with a rope sash,
but knew the pleasures
of music and song,
poetry and wine.
Three Teachers long since gone
and their lofty ways
cannot be pursued.
Three friends
so given to frolic
there's no day
they fail to follow.
In my left hand
I flourish a white jade cup,
in my right hand
strum with a golden plectrum.
So excited tipsy am I
that I don't fold up the paper
and my racing brush
renders wild words.
Who can take these words
with which
to express my gratitude
to intimate friends?
Even though
they may not consider
me right,
how can they consider me wrong?
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