| 英譯： |
In the Eighth Moon , the autumn gales howl from on high ;
The thrice-laid thatch rolls from my roof to the sky .
Scattered about , across the river , the straws fly ,
On the tips of the tall trees they hang and twine ,
Or swirling down to the pools they sink and lie .
Urchins from Southern Village tease that I'm an old one ,
They rob , under my eyes , in the face of the sun ,
By holding armfuls of straws , and actually run
Into the bamboos , $(taking my shouting as fun .)$
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I can only come back , and leaning on my cane groan .
Meanwhile , the clouds are dark as ink when the gales cease ,
And the autumn sky is veiled in dusky sheets .
Cold as iron is the quilt worn for many years ;
My boy , sleeping ill , trod the lining into pieces .
Wet is at the bed-side , as the roof there has leaks ; The raindrops drip successively down like hemp seeds .
E'er since the upheaval we've been short of sleeps ;
How to endure the soakage till the long night flees ?
If there were spacious houses , thousands and more ,
Sheltering all the world to the joy of the poor,
Unshaken like the mountains in the storm's uproar !
Alas ! i'd prefer my cot ruins , I myself frozen to death ,
To the towering houses that one day stand in my face !
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