Man jiang hong
A gate shut in twilight,
A yard full of forlorn flowers, thinning grasses!
The sparse shades rolled up,
The wind presses the papered window
As smoke from the jade urn curls out.
A few cries from the sky's edgemigrant geese pass;
Some specks by the forest-homing crows caw.
Still and vacant
Fallen leaves trembling on empty steps.
Who'd sweep their red?
There's no end to writing
This grief-stricken draft;
There's no end to routing
This idle distress.
I reckon such sad scenes before my eyes
As added matter for verse.
My shadow pities its two slender sleeves.
My sick soul contracted three autumns' age.
Let's round the eaves
To ask in jest the freezing plums:
Spring's too early yet?
（Antony C. Yu 譯）
Tune: Man Chiang hung (Full River Red)
Shut the door against the setting sun
The yard is full of broken flowers, faded glass!
Sparse shades rolled up, the wind blows taunt the paper window
Smoke curls from the incense burner
From the sky's end cry the migrating geese that have passed
From the edge of the forest caw a few spots of disappearing crows
There is no one-softly, leaves fall on the cold empty step—
Who swept away the petals?
I set down endlessly
The draft of a broken heart
Words don't keep pace
With idle sorrow
Whatever I see
Adds to the stuff of poetry.
Even my own shadow pities me—thin sleeves,
Sick soul already three autumns old—
Wait! Inspect the eaves! Absurd—but ask the freezing plum:
Is it still too soon for spring?
（Julia Landau 譯）