Matching the Rhymes of the Snow Poem Sent in Reply by Diarist Yi, Whereupon I Made Two Poems and Showed Them to Vice Minister Yi and Vice Director Ha as Well次韻李起居郞見和雪詩。卽和成二首。兼示李侍郞，河郞中。

It has already reached everywhere, to the terraced cliffs and the broad fields, and makes no distinction between high noon and the dead of night. How should one try, with a narrow view that has its limits, to reckon up what flies boundlessly wide? Only when one breaks it off does one know the difference of coarse and fine; and even dividing it up, one cannot tell what came first from what poured down after. Covering their bodies they hurry on, and travellers are in confusion; their legs sink in, yet they run as though mad—the little children are delighted. When the time comes for melting, it may indeed be something to regret, but if one looks straight at its true form, there is nothing to paint at all. It comes diligently and enters the trees, and now it heaps up calyxes; in haste it would fill the branches, as though it were drawing shoots upward. Before I knew it, it had suddenly covered my head and filled it over, so do not yet say that it is going far off at the edge of the eye. At first, with my mood at its ripest, I meant to chant the whole day through, but my skin is chilled, and I can hardly get through this morning. How fortunate, that the colour of the filthy mud is covered over entirely; how much a pity, that the high battlements are half buried to the waist. I greatly dislike that the plum is late, and has dressed its blossoms with bare heads; I bitterly hate that the wood is tall, and bends its branches to hold out. The poor house is glad that it has grown bright, and suspects the sun has risen; the man who has moored his boat is startled at dawn and would follow the tide. Inside the window there is a rustling, as though winged insects brushed past; on the branches there is a fluttering—the dancing butterflies are lovely. The dogs of Yue (越) bark amid the noise, vying to call it strange; how many times has a song gone up from a donkey's back on Ba Bridge (灞橋)? The secret flying squirrel, its feet stiffened, covets only its winding hole; the gaunt horse trembles and trembles, afraid to climb the bridge. The cotton being thin, I add a new white lined coat over it again; the ashes having gone out, I rake the old embers apart finely. Spread quietly along the wall, it is as though white earth had been plastered there; laid out crosswise at the head of the fulling stone, it looks like silk being pounded. It clings to the body for a moment and then of itself is gone, yet the years that are left have entered my temple hair, and that is harder to erase. I ask you: that mad shape of yours—why does it toss about so? I fear that even my quiet heart will be shaken along with it. The rush mat becomes at times a seat of frozen ice; and from where will the silken mat send me a kind summons? Facing the shadows on the paper window, why should I grieve at the darkness? Leaning into the shade on the pine path, why should I fear a dousing of water? Though I wear a thick outer coat, I still think of a fire to warm both hands at; and though I had gold besides, a single load of firewood is hard to buy. The sun has turned like white pongee, so I know how hard it has frozen; and if this were the flower of the immortals, what cause would it have to wither? Why should I grudge its bright patterning and find it hard to provoke a tiger? I would sooner, for the sake of warm □, not violate a sable fur coat. Heaps of silver seem to be there whole in every house, but the ground is cramped, and my own house is likewise not well off. I fear only that the courtyard steps will melt of themselves and be in peril, and do not consider that the dust and filth are happily washed away along with it. Little by little it fills the gates and streets, joined all through into fair jade; sprinkled thickly over the bamboo grove, it chokes the sound of the flute of itself. Sent from the Eastern Sea, the morning tiger rises; walking level over the Western Mountains, Ban Chao (班超) was valiant. Sitting blankly alone, with whom am I to chant? Even those near me are still at odds with me, and I dare not call them. At first I disliked this chanting, for its bounds were noisy; but presently it moves over into the Way, and enters the stillness of Heaven. At such a time there is wine—what harm in drinking? I too have the feelings of a man, and cannot but be sometimes not idle.