介绍:
On Zheng Qian, of the Editorial Office
The land is vast at Taizhou, the ocean is so dark,
clouds and water always share the green of isles level and mountainous.
After the war my old friend, a pair of parting tears,
deep in spring the exile is a single duckweed adrift.
Tipsy with ale, too lazy to dance, who will now pull me to rise?—
my poem done, I can chant it, but you listen to it no more.
East of Bridge Number Five the waters that carry bitterness,
north of the slope of the Royal Bank, a pavilion where sadness forms.
When Jia Yi faced the owl, he felt pain at being a prince’s tutor,
Su Wu tended sheep having fallen into the enemy’s camp.
Touching, how this old man harbors the upright way,
and he has been blessed that the new reign employs light punishments.
For my Mi Heng I truly worry that he might meet his Jiangxia,
it was fancifully said that Dongfang Shuo was indeed the Year Star.
Your poor lane is all silent, the horses and carriages gone,
dead and dried up on your table, the glowworms by which you once read.
大家还在听
