The Peonies Being in Full Bloom at the House of Yang Mun, Master Yang Asked for a Poem, and I Made This梁文家芍藥盛開。梁君請詩爲賦之。
百花開了靜掃空。萬眼渾無一片紅。西隣詩家赤芍藥。活𧰟明冶溫香濃。紅肌花疊爛如蒸。碧股叢低弱不勝。偸裁赤城晚霞灎。奪下碧落朝日昇。鮮葩倒垂露密蘂。點綴金粟排紅燈。乃知造物蓄意慳。留此窈窕仙姝顔。欲將餘巧動新賞。故待春歸芳意闌。滴露洗新猩血釅。微風吹側鶴頭丹。我疑王母朝漢皇。殿前拆破雲錦囊。又疑火帝下閶闔。祝融仙隊拖裠裳。西施玉骨埋泥塵。卷却人問一餉春。芳魂散漫自難收。直作妖花還媚人。故應婀娜嬌無力。猶帶吳宮醺醉色。高唐虛役巫峽夢。楚國枉有陽城惑。可忍相看不殢腸。嫣然向客偏輕盈。白日勺開嬌解笑。黃昏微斂靜含情。梁公好事人所誇。請我試作看花歌。頑桃俗杏粗可狀。我才豈合賦名花。況今落魄情興淺。白也筆老奈花何。謝公曾詠中書階。韓子又歌司馬家。嗟渠妖態生何晚。未使此輩煩吟哦。玉樽浮蟻儻呼斟。掀出風情更一吟。
All the flowers have bloomed and fallen, and it is empty as though quietly swept, and in all the eye can see there is not one scrap of red. But the red peonies at the house of the poet, my western neighbor, are fresh and bright and fair, and their warm fragrance is thick. Petals of red flesh lie folded as though steamed, in lavish profusion, and the clumps on green stems are low, too frail to bear them up. It is as though they had stolen and drunk dry the glow of evening light on Chicheng (赤城), as though they had snatched the morning sun rising in the blue sky and brought it down. The fair blossoms hang upside down, their dew-beaded stamens thick, dotted with golden millet as though red lamps were set out in rows. By this I know that the Maker kept his mind in reserve and held back this lovely face of a fairy. With the skill he had left he meant to raise a new sight to see, and so waited on purpose till spring went back and the flowers' will was spent. Drops of dew have newly washed them, deep as the blood of an orangutan, and a thread of breeze blows aslant, and they are red as a crane's head. I wonder: when the Queen Mother of the West came to court before the emperor of Han, did she burst a bag of cloud-brocade before the hall? And I wonder again: when the Lord of Fire came down through the gate of heaven, did Zhurong's (祝融) company of immortals come trailing their skirts? When the jade-like bones of Xi Shi (西施) were buried in the mud, she gathered up and carried off the spring of this world, no longer than a meal. Her flowering soul was scattered and hard to gather of itself, and so became at once a bewitching flower and now plays coy with men. That is why they are so swaying and lovely and without strength, and still bear the flush of their drinking in the palace of Wu. Gaotang (高唐) spun its dream of the Wu Gorge to no purpose, and Chu had the beguilement of Yangcheng (陽城) for nothing. How should one look at them and not be consumed? Smiling, they turn toward the guest, uncommonly light and swaying. On a bright day they open wide and know how to smile beautifully; at dusk they close a little and quietly hold their feeling in. Master Yang's love of such doings is what men praise in him, and he asks me to make a song of looking at the flowers. Dull peach and common apricot I could roughly draw, but how is my skill fit to sing of a famous flower? Still less now, when I am downcast and my feeling and spirit run shallow, and Li Bai's brush too has grown old — what is to be done for the flowers? Master Xie (謝公) once sang of the ones on the steps of the Secretariat, and Master Han (韓子) too sang of those in the house of the Sima. Ah, why was that bewitching form so late in being born, that it could not put those men to the labor of singing it? If you should call me to pour the ant-flecked wine in the jade jar, I will rake up my feeling for the scene and sing of it once more.