Another Letter in My Own Hand Sent to the Retired Scholar An又寄安處士手書
月日。某啓。昨以所厚求墨君事。輕浼左右。惶灼俟罪。蒙掃與風竹數四叢。其人持以來示。敍謝甚誠。觀其枝葉活動。想聽騷騷爽韻。眞得風中態。吾向以處士比文洋州。其不能中的也耶。復承過損。要僕近所著詩文。僕素習雖嗜詩。但常爲軍事所迫。又念若於貔虎叢間。喜常操筆哦詠。則必遭衆罵。故鮮有所作。雖未除餘習。或時有著。輒爲人取去。箱篋無見在一紙。其餘四六。皆禱佛祈神之文。不足煩採覽。故不敢錄呈。幸勿誚之。向寒。伏祝珍重自愛。不宣頓首。
On a certain day of a certain month, so-and-so declares.
Yesterday I lightly troubled you over the matter of a man I hold dear asking for bamboo painted in ink, and in fear, as though burning, I await your blame. And yet you painted three or four clumps of wind-blown bamboo and gave them. The man brought it and showed it to me, and his words of thanks were most sincere. Seeing the branches and leaves alive and moving, it was as if a cool rustling could be heard, and you have truly caught the look of a thing within the wind. How should my earlier likening of you to Wenyangzhou (文洋州) not have been apt?
Again I received words of excessive humility from you, asking for the poems and writings I have made of late. What I have practiced from the first is the enjoyment of poetry; but I am always driven by the business of the army, and besides I thought that if among these tiger-like soldiers I were always taking up the brush and delighting in chanting I should surely meet with the reproach of the many, and so what I have composed is rare. Unable to put off the habit that remains, I have at times composed something now and again, but each time another has carried it off, and there is not one sheet of paper left in my box. The rest, my writings in parallel prose, are all texts of prayer to the Buddha and supplication to the spirits, and are not worth the trouble of your looking at, and so I do not dare to copy them out and send them. Pray do not reproach me.
The days are growing cold. I pray you will cherish your body as a treasure. Here I stop and bow my head.