Matching the Rhymes of the Long Snow Poem in Thirty Rhymes with Which Vice Minister Yi Su Replied in Palindrome Form次韻李侍郞需以廻文和長句雪詩三十韻

Yesterday I was favoured again with a reply to my earlier snow poem, in the woven-brocade manner (織錦體). Now of the palindrome (廻文) it may be said that even in a short piece nothing is harder than this. And so, though the men of old delighted in making palindromes, there was none who carried it to twenty rhymes or thirty. How much more, then, when one replies to another man's long piece and does it in palindrome besides!

What you have now shown me turns so gracefully that it is to be loved, and I cannot leave it unanswered. I only follow the rhymes and imitate you clumsily.

Hurriedly I rake the fire and come, and the cold has the dawn upon it; in haste I trim the lamp, and afterwards the darkness seeps into night. The red of phoenix crests is buried, and every mountain is filled; the red of pheasant heads is sunk away, and it flies down every valley. The wall grows whiter, as with powder, and I know it for a deft adornment; green shows on the coiled hair of the peaks, and I know only a little has poured down. Roosting at evening in the rough wood, the hard-pressed gibbon huddles; flying at dawn over the far field, the swift hawk shows its mettle. Its mad shape is cleared away, and it is trodden by the travelling wayfarer; its white form moves on, as though a skilled craftsman had painted it. Hidden deep, the roadbed is sunk level with the ground; submerged long, the roots of the flowers have closed their shoots up tight. Spreading an umbrella, I go slowly along the high road; shaking out a straw cape, I go far off to the fishing cove. Glittering fireflies light up the characters: it is night at the reading window; coolly they wake the spirit: it is morning in the sleeping place. Dressing up the tree, it seals it over wholly from branch to trunk; covering the rock, it has sunk it perilously from crown to waist. I forget to transplant the garden greens that have newly shed their husks; I put off planting the leeks of the furrow that have well put out their stalks. The locusts being gone, I know already that the barley in the field will stand out; the herons being startled, I particularly suspect the tide has risen in the sea. When the sunlight turns, its ornate scattering slackens little by little; when the sun shines bright, it gathers in its fair colouring. I am sorry that the mandarin-duck tiles, pressed down, shoot cold air from their ends; I regret that the hare's-fur brush is frozen and has left off making songs. My belly being hungry, I know already that the cauldron is empty; my feet being lame, I am afraid to tread the legs of the ladder. The cool quilt being thin, I am just now loath to lie down; the thin ashes being dry, I regret that it is hard to kindle them after all. Sprinkled through the storehouse until it is full, it vies with provisions and dried rice; heaped up much in the granary, it is worth comparing with silk. Loath to touch the incense table, it just now rests quietly; repenting that it has seeped into the kitchen, it is gone lightly of itself. Fearing that the water will rise and hold it, it sometimes melts a good deal; and as it draws in and dwindles, I know its tossing too must have stopped. To unroll a piece of writing, it is fitting that you should come and call; and being mellow with wine, I would rather be the one who gets another's summons. Frost and ice are alike—how should they pile up heavy and light? Rain and dew are of a kind—how should they choose first and last to pour down? The sturdy servant can be leaned upon, and I always have him take up the broom; the sick servant I indulgently permit, and he has already grown slack at gathering wood. Where the sheep are driven and herded, the wool scatters lightly; when the cranes are loosed and watched, the down withers fine. The young man gallops his horse back and wets his jade hat; the guest's carriage flies along and is mingled with silver sable fur. Tossing and gathering what was heaped in the pouch is like dividing and casting beads; scheming to take in what was loaded in the sack—the rice is amply heaped. The sprouting of the fair grasses is hindered, for the bitter dominion is fierce; the filthy dust floats idly, turns to juice, and flows and is washed away. The long embankment is far off, and I fear my rain hat will tilt; the quiet house is cold, and I know the holes of the pipe are rough. The road the sun travels is hard to trespass on, and one ought to avoid it; the blue sky is easy to cross, and suddenly one flies and leaps up. Tipping the cup deep, I am refreshed and my heart opens wide; the prospect is surpassing and the chanting ripens, and the mood draws me and calls. Looking upon the auspicious and the baleful alike, I enter calmly into clearness; seeing joy and sorrow as one, I come to an emptiness and stillness. My body is in health and happily the times are at peace, and being suited in my mind I rejoice, and am glad once more.