| 英譯： |
The living
Are but passing travelers;
The dead
Are those
Who have reached their home
At last.
The world
Is but an inn,
And we,
The countless generations
Of mankind,
Must all return again
To the sad dust.
The hare
In the moon
Pounds his elixirs
In vain;
And the fu sang tree,
$(Whose fruit)$
$(Once rendered men immortal,)$
Has long since been cut
And burned for firewood.
Man's white bones sleep.
No word do they utter
Nor do they know
As does the green-clad pine,
When spring has come.
If I look behind me
Or before,
0
What is there
Worth holding precious
In the empty honors
Of this sad fleeting world?
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