The Reverend Hyeon Answered, So I Used the Former Rhymes Again玄上人見和復用前韻
1The first poem
夢酣仙境勝。身着畫屛微。露重猶疑雨。江昏未信暉。他山脚底歷。此地眼中稀。僧榻移時話。方歸覺皺衣。
The dream ripens, and the land of the immortals is surpassing; my body clings faintly within a painted screen. The dew is so heavy that I doubt whether it is rain, and the river so dark that I cannot trust the sunlight. The other mountains have passed beneath my feet, and this ground is scarce within my eyes. On the monk's couch we talked a long while, and only on coming back do I notice that my clothes are crumpled.
2The second poem
斜日溟濛水獨明。亂山蟠屈路難平。雲迷極浦千帆色。風落長江一笛聲。度了幾人舟自泛。噪殘孤虎鳥猶鳴。朅來深得江湖興。忽起蓴鱸萬里情。
In the slanting sun it is dusky, and only the water is bright; the tangled hills coil and bend, and the road can hardly be level. At the far inlet where the clouds are dull there is the light of a thousand sails, and on the long river where the wind drops there is a single strain of a flute. Having ferried a few men across, the boat floats of itself, and the lone tiger has been barked at to the end, yet the birds are crying still. Coming and going, I take deeply the delight of rivers and lakes, and suddenly there rises a ten-thousand-league longing for water-shield greens and perch.
3The third poem
白沙鋪地遠。碧水際天微。雨惡增秋浪。霞明助夕暉。路幽逢虎熟。海瘠得魚稀。五馬人誰識。蕭然似布衣。
The white sand is spread over the ground and goes far, and the blue water touches the sky and grows faint. The rain is fierce and adds to the autumn waves, and the glow is bright and helps out the evening sunlight. The road is so secluded that meeting a tiger is an ordinary thing, and the sea so barren that getting fish is rare. Who would know that this is a magistrate with a carriage of five horses? I am as forlorn as a man in hempen clothes.
4The fourth poem
海山千里月分明。何處漁歌唱大平。詩榻愛吟帆去樣。畫家難寫鳥啼聲。林巒有霧晴猶暗。松檜無風晚自鳴。瞠目彷徨君莫怪。詞人自古苦鍾情。
Over a thousand leagues of sea and hills the moon is bright, and from somewhere a fisherman's song sings of great peace. On the couch where poems are made one gladly chants the look of a sail setting out, but the painter finds it hard to paint the sound of a bird's crying. There is mist on the woods and the hilltops, so that even when it clears it is dark still, and though there is no wind in the pines and the old pines, when evening comes they cry of themselves. Do not think it strange, sir, that I glare wide-eyed and pace about: from of old it has been the way of poets to be drawn by feeling and so to suffer.