Matching the Rhymes of the Replies Sent by Vice Minister Yi Su and Vice Director Ha Cheondan次韻李侍郞需，河郞中千旦見和。
昨承兩學士見和。卽和成藁本。以起居郞和詩未到。未敢寫寄。昨因李侍郞見訪。索其藁觀之。明日。又和一首寄之。侍郞所和。如是之頻。而猶以郞詩未到爲辭。而久自默然耶。因和一首。寄于兩君。但於末添四句爲三十韻者。非好勇也。蓋詩中狀雪才周而未悉陳仰慕三君思與同賞之意故爾。請同示起居郞。
Yesterday I received the replies sent by the two academicians and at once wrote a reply and made a draft of it; but because the Diarist's answering poem had not yet arrived, I did not venture to copy it out and send it. Yesterday, when Vice Minister Yi came to call, he asked for that draft and looked it over, and the next day he sent me yet another poem in reply. The Vice Minister's replies come as often as this—should I still stay silent a long while, pleading that the Diarist's poem has not come? And so I reply with one poem and send it to the two of them.
As for adding four more lines at the end and making it thirty rhymes, that was not out of a love of bravado. The painting of the snow within the poem was barely carried through; it is only that I had not fully unfolded my wish to look upon it together with the three of them, whom I admire and long for. I hope it may be shown to the Diarist as well.
Interlinear notes 1
幷序
The preface is included with it.
倚欄貪翫垂侵暮。欹枕猶聞便入宵。疑是雨遭寒所化。不然夏有雪猶飄。臘天餘凜居然壯。陽氣方乘尙爾瀌。去地漸高牛可沒。觸途皆凍馬難驕。無簦自任渾身冒。有粉予猶信手描。好拂靑筠憐有節。休尋黃獨嘆無苗。庭塡恐遣層階沒。路礙尋敎尺步遙。屬此擁爐閑坐夕。笑曾霑弁早衙朝。粧臺正妬施鉛面。舞館全欺束素腰。尙有黠狐迷失穴。何言飢雀困尋條。狂於隋岸三春絮。壯似錢塘八月潮。衰叟較嗟絲鬢亂。美人羞掩玉顔嬌。不思倡妓携同賞。唯憶詩朋與共謠。平陸人愁融作水。枯槎我已斷爲橋。興來王子催舟泛。臥久焦生任屋燒。滿苑一時敷浪蕊。長籬萬里掛輕綃。功深剪刻宜堪久。性欠堅貞易自消。必爾墮來仍靜着。被誰留弄尙閑搖。若嫌靴墊渠何出。縱被衣濡是自招。風卷不須長帚掃。日烘差勝沸湯澆。凍醪難暖催求炭。柮木粗炊得代樵。足踐終成隨地滅。掌擎初重自天凋。年祥正屆先修廩。酒價尤高欲賣貂。對汝形姸吾已伏。較吾鬚皓汝還饒。遡陰先積何容釋。入水隨淪未暇漂。絃絶已諳難撫瑟。簧寒又可得吹簫。三君岐爽風神秀。一代飛掦藻翰超。爲問詞腸誰與瀉。各拘官事未相邀。矧伊殘老多蕭索。久矣幽居守寂寥。更待雪天當會遇。醉吟嘉景慰無聊。
Leaning on the railing I watched it greedily until dusk came on; leaning on my pillow I still heard the sound of it, and so entered the night. I wonder whether this is rain that met the cold and was changed; if it were not so, then snow would still be flying in summer. The lingering cold of the twelfth month holds its strength as it was, and though the breath of spring is just now rising, it pours down like this. From the ground it has grown higher and higher, enough to bury an ox; every road one travels is frozen through, and a horse can hardly show its mettle. Having no umbrella, I take it on myself to be covered over, whole body and all; having powder, I still try my hand at painting as the brush leads me. It is good at shaking the green bamboo—how lovely that it has joints; do not go looking for yellow taro, or you will sigh that it has no shoots. I fear the courtyard will be filled until the steps are buried, and the road is blocked, so that a single foot of walking has grown remote. At a time like this an evening sitting idly with the brazier is good, and it is laughable how I once wet my hat on the early road to the office. The dressing mirror is hard at envying the powdered face; the dancing house deceives the whole waist bound in white silk. There is still the cunning fox, who has lost his hole and strays; not to speak of the starving sparrow, who can hardly find a branch. In its madness it is like the catkins of the three spring months on the banks of Sui (隋); in its strength it is like the eighth-month tide at Qiantang (錢塘). The failing old man compares it and sighs at the tangling of his thread-like temple hair; the beautiful woman is ashamed and hides her fair jade face. I do not think of taking singing girls along to look at it together; I think only of singing together with the friends of my poems. On level ground people worry that the snow will melt and turn to water, but with dry stumps I have already cut and laid a bridge across. When the mood took him, Wang Ziyou (王子猷) urged them to put out the boat; lying long abed, Jiao Xian (焦先) let his house burn and left it be. All over the garden it has opened wave-like stamens at a single stroke, and along the long hedge for ten thousand li it has hung up light silk. It is cut and carved with deep skill, so that it should last long, yet its nature is not firm and upright, and of itself it fades away easily. It must come falling down and then cling there quietly as it is; by whom is it held and made sport of, that it still sways idly? If one hates to have one's shoes soaked, why did the man go out walking? And even if one's clothes are soaked, that is something one brought on oneself. When the wind clears it away, there is no need to sweep with a long broom; when the sun shines on it, that is better than pouring boiling water. Frozen wine is hard to warm, and I urge them to go find charcoal; we burn stump wood roughly for the fire in place of proper firewood. Trodden under foot, it is extinguished at last along with the ground; received in the palm, it is heavy at first, then withers just as it came from the sky. The sign of a good harvest has come just now, so first I put the granary in order; the price of wine has risen higher still, and I would like to sell my fur coat. Facing your fair form, I have already bowed; compared with the whiteness of my beard, you are the richer after all. Piling up first against the shade, how should it hope to melt? And once it enters the water it sinks along with it, with no leisure to be washed away. I know already that the strings are broken, and the zither is hard to play; and now that the pipe is frozen, can one still play the flute? The three of you are uncommonly cool and outstanding, your bearing bright, and you have risen in flight in this age, your writing surpassing. I ask: with whom am I to pour out the inward heart of my writing? Each of you is bound to the business of office, and we cannot call one another. How much more this failing old man, who has much loneliness in him and has lived long in seclusion, keeping to the quiet. I shall wait again for a day of snow and then we ought to meet, and drunken we shall chant, easing our idleness with the fine prospect.