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 — Another Poem次韻李起居郞見和雪詩。卽和成二首。兼示李侍郞，河郞中。 又
詳觀要必吟當晝。亘續何須墮向宵。夢罷想曾收寂寂。眼看依舊散飄飄。俄瞻汗漫紛無際。何忽蕭條少減瀌。應是東皇方用事。不敎北帝恣宣驕。幸因僕倦留難掃。忽倩人來曲自描。玉不地生何是璞。花從天到未曾苗。初來尙辨鷺飛近。漸合難分鴉去遙。認白錯諳猶臘月。無紅誰信是春朝。晢如姝媛猶藏面。頎若長人已陷腰。是處有家皆粉瓦。到頭無樹不琳條。寢房尋見膚生粟。飮席難敎臉浸潮。必倒稠堆觀體膩。詎將纖片覓姿嬌。幽蘭曲妙堪幷唱。黃竹歌哀不必謠。最喜氷漿盈渴井。偏愁畫彩掩華橋。莫疑陰屋流澌速。爲近炊廚有火燒。不獨崗巒包絮纊。至如土木裹縑綃。未遑足惜黏泥滅。奚暇追尋入海消。摶作跳毬堪蹴送。積爲層嶺莫掀搖。要於溫室當爐坐。除却親朋有酒招。擎傘莫逃橫入洒。障衫才免乍來澆。窮閻怪有晨昏㸑。脩路全稀往返樵。不待裂紈同扇皎。有何騁羽類霜凋。獵軍那督霑紅旆。說客應驚變黑貂。春月未三妖不摯。穀精兼五色先饒。方虞明日成流漲。姑置吾家患雨漂。剛猒寒威頻凍硯。試裁陽調協鳴簫。勿言堂庳全階沒。誰恃樓高越級超。只向臘前差可喜。自迎暄後不須邀。從敎滿地無虛缺。但怯塡空失泬寥。不是三君來問訊。袁安方臥竟何聊。
To see it closely one must chant at high noon; it comes on and on without a break—why must it fall only at night? Waking from my dream I thought that it had once drawn quietly to a close, but when I opened my eyes and looked, it was flying scattered as before. For a moment it looked boundless and spread out in confusion without end, and then how has it suddenly grown desolate and slackened its pouring a little? Surely it is that the spirit of spring is just now taking up its charge and will not let the spirit of winter show off as it pleases. Happily, because I was lazy about the servants and left it unswept, it suddenly invites a man to paint it himself, winding turn by turn. The jade did not come out of the ground—how then should it be rough jade? The flower came down from the sky, and has never once put out a shoot. When it first came, one could still make out whether a heron flew near by; but little by little it has closed in, and it is hard to make out a crow going far off. Seeing only whiteness, I mistakenly think it is still the twelfth month; and with no red blossoms, who would believe that this is a morning of spring? In its whiteness it is like a fair woman who still hides her face; in its height it is like a tall man already sunk to the waist. Wherever one goes, if there is a house, the tiles are all powdered; wherever one arrives, if there is a tree, there is no branch that is not jade. In the sleeping chamber one soon sees the gooseflesh rising on the skin, and even at the wine table it is hard to bring a red flush to the cheek. Only when it is beaten down and heaped up thick does one see the smoothness of its body; how should one look for its fair form in a thin flake? The tune of "Secret Orchid" (幽蘭) is exquisite and worth singing along with; the song of "Yellow Bamboo" (黃竹) is sorrowful, and need not be chanted at all. What gladdens me most is that ice water fills the dry well; what grieves me alone is that the colours of the ornate bridge are covered over. Do not doubt, in a shaded house, whether the ice floes will run quickly; the kitchen is near by, and there is a fire being burned. It is not the mountain ridges only that are wrapped in cotton; down to the earth and the trees, all are bound in fine silk. There is no leisure to regret its clinging to the mud and being gone, and when has one time to go seeking after it as it enters the sea and vanishes? Packed together, it becomes a bounding ball, fit to be kicked away; heaped up, it becomes terraced ashes that cannot be shaken. It is fitting to sit facing the brazier in a warm room, and apart from my close friends there is no one to call over for wine. Even holding up an umbrella, one cannot escape its slanting in; only by covering oneself with a jacket does one barely avoid a moment's dousing. It is strange that in a poor village there is a fire burning at dawn and at dusk, and on the far roads those going to and fro for firewood are very few. There is no need to tear white silk and match it against the whiteness of a fan; and what plumage could one spread to liken to what withers in the frost? Why should the hunting soldiers urge on the soaking of the red banners? And the travelling persuader must be startled that his black fur coat is changed. Spring is not yet three months gone, so the baleful thing is not fierce; and with the essence of the grain, it has five colours besides, and is ample beforehand. I am just now worried that tomorrow it will overflow, but for the present I set aside the fear that my house will be washed away by rain. Quite sick of the cold's dominion, since my inkstone freezes again and again, I try my hand at a tune of spring and set it to the crying flute. Do not say that the house is low and the steps are buried over entirely; who, trusting that the storeyed tower is high, would leap up past the ranks? If only it were before the twelfth month, it would be well worth rejoicing in, but since the warmth has come, there is nothing to summon it for. I leave it to fill the ground until there is no empty place, yet I fear only that it may fill the empty sky and lose its open clearness. If the three of you do not come and ask after me, then though Yuan An (袁安) be lying there just now, what joy is there in it after all?
Interlinear notes 1
紀勝書曰。雪爲五穀之精。
The Jisheng shu (紀勝書) says, 「Snow is the essence of the five grains.」