Facing the Spring Snow I Chanted by Chance and Got a Long Poem of Twenty-six Rhymes, Which I Respectfully Send to Academician Yi Su of the Library, Vice Director Ha Cheondan of the Board of Punishments, and Yi Sunmok, Diarist of the Inner Chancellery對春雪偶吟。得長句二十六韻。奉寄芸閣李學士需，秋部河郞中千旦，內省李起居淳牧。

Though I hunch my shoulders, how can I bear what has piled on the house by dawn? My dream was deep, and I never knew it was striking the window in the night. I know only how high and how low it has piled upon the ground; do not ask how coarse and how fine it flew through the open air. With the door shut, at first I heard only a dry rustling; when I rolled up the blind, at last I saw the light of it pouring down in sheets. Before the twelfth month I had longed for whiteness—what use is it now? In the season of spring the cold is mixed in: who is it, truly, that is showing off? When the mood comes I at once wave my brush and paint it out, and with no thought in me I try my hand at a painted-screen likeness. In the plum garden it falls just right, matching the new calyxes well; in the barley furrows it is especially good at wetting the dry shoots. Dotted finely on the end of a sleeve, it melts and is gone at once; what presses close to the eaves and then departs is distant once again. Filling the low places, it has already made the hollows swell; breaking the darkness, it has thereby made the evening into morning. When Master Dongguo (東郭) walked abroad, his feet were bared all over; where the Patriarch (祖師) stood, it came level exactly with his waist. Across and along it plants jade down the field furrows, and in a moment it borrows the branches of trees to put forth flowers. The foolish daughter mistakes it for a scattering of face powder, and the old fisherman fears for a moment that silver waves are rising. When they jostle and strike against one another, when have they ever given way? Dancing, they sometimes hesitate, and of themselves they are lovely. Willow catkins happily share its shape and make a deft comparison; the orchid can be matched to a tune, and so looses a long song. I have heard that making a rhapsody (賦) on it began at the Garden of Liang (梁苑), so why must verses be chanted only on Ba Bridge (㶚橋)? In a well-off house they still burn ornate candles for fire; in a poor kitchen they are just now gathering wet brushwood to burn. In an empty courtyard it has heaped up flour deftly sifted twice over, and along the level road it has spread one single colour of white silk evenly. The wind comes out of the west, and the east is shaking hardest; the sun shines from the south, and the north melts first. Sprinkled on a beard, it adds to the wavering of tangled threads; brushing past the eye, it doubles the swimming, as though a film were over it. At Luoyi (洛邑) they sought out Yuan An (袁安), and he was lying there as he was; who was it that called, when a man went up Shan Creek (剡溪) to seek Dai Kui (戴逵)? The children at play have cold hands, yet they pack it and throw it back again; the drunken guest, his throat parched, chews it and is slaked at once. If one sets it beside sitting idly with a fire in a deep room, how can one bear to hear that someone is carrying wood along a lonely path? Should it happen on a solitary bamboo, it can break it first; but how should it alter that the upright pine withers late by nature? I ask you: the officer whipping his frozen horse along— how does he stand against the idle old man wrapped in a thick fur coat? Mingled with the dawn clouds, its light is darkened all through; flying up on the evening wind, its force is ample indeed. Do not wait for a new clearing—it should be swept away in haste; when it has turned to running froth, how can one bear its washing away? At such a time there is only the house of the young lord, where amid silks and perfumes they are playing the flute.