<Header>
<Author: 李賀>
<Title: 勉愛行二首送小季之廬山 二>
<Format: 格式不明>
<Year: 1970>
<BookName: The Poems of Li Ho>
<Translator: J. D. Frodsham>
<TranslatedTitle: Be Sure to Take Care of Yourself Two Poems Written When I Escorted Young Li on His Way to Mount Lu No.2>
<BookPage: 97-98>
<UsedPage: 2>
<Feature: 1, 4>
<End Header>
<Poem>
別柳當馬頭，
官槐如兔目。
欲將千里別，
持我易斗粟。
南雲北雲空脈斷，
靈臺經絡懸春綫。
青軒樹轉月滿牀，
下國飢兒夢中見。
維爾之昆二十餘，
年來持鏡頗有鬚。
辭家三載今如此，
索米王門一事無。
荒溝古水光如刀，
庭南拱柳生蠐螬。
江干幼客真可念，
郊原晚吹悲號號。
<End Poem>
<Translation>
WILLOWS of parting at your horse's head,
On the highway, ash-tree buds like rabbit-eyes.
We are going to endure a thousand-league parting,
All this suffering just for a peck of millet!
Southern clouds, northern clouds, Block off my view,
My heart-threes travelled as spring's pendant silk. 
Blue eaves and wheeling trees, Moonlight floods my bed. 
In dreams I see a hungry lad off to the provinces.
Your elder brother is now turned twenty, 
The mirror tells him how his beard is growing.
Three years ago he left out home—to come to this!
Begging rice at princes; gates, An utter failure.
In weed-grown drains, standing water Bright as a blade,
In old willows south of the courtyard, Cutworms breed.
I worry about you, young Traveller to the River,
Over fields of the waste the evening Horns moan sadly.
<End Translation>
<Formatted Translation>
WILLOWS of parting at your horse’s head,
On the highway, ash-tree buds like rabbit-eyes.
We are going to endure a thousand-league parting,
All this suffering just for a peck of millet!

Southern clouds, northern clouds, block off my view,
My heart-threes travelled as spring’s pendant silk.
Blue eaves and wheeling trees, moonlight floods my bed.
In dreams I see a hungry lad off to the provinces.

Your elder brother is now turned twenty,
The mirror tells him how his beard is growing.
Three years ago he left out home—to come to this!
Begging rice at princes; gates, an utter failure.

In weed-grown drains, standing water bright as a blade,
In old willows south of the courtyard, cutworms breed.

I worry about you, young traveller to the River,
Over fields of the waste the evening horns moan sadly.
<End Formatted Translation>