Matching the Rhymes Again, Vice Minister Yi Having Replied Once More to the Snow Poem in Palindrome復次韻李侍郞重和雪詩廻文
忙悤勢忽隨驚吹。杳遠聲宜洒靜宵。凰穴避全丹羽煥。鶴皐飛混白毫飄。墻垣補倍高層聳。陌畛鋪勻皓彩瀌。荒路凍妨行足捷。晚堂寒減醉情驕。狂童戲裏拳貪掬。妙匠心中手宛描。藏更出尖孤峙峀。縮尋成茁早生苗。張絲細細來多小。裊絮輕輕去邇遙。煌影要應看夜夜。婉姿憐欲見朝朝。粧塗土出鮮容態。壓倒林成曲背腰。忘出巷門迷塞徑。好尋園樹滿裝條。蝗埋旋覺曾淪壤。鵠沒渾疑始漲潮。陽長正宜收掩苒。暝侵將漸寢姸嬌。鴦廬梵室僧開閉。兔苑梁筵客詠謠。腸納暖漿煎茗椀。脚沈融汁履沙橋。涼衫拂曠仍閑掛。熾炭添新認猛燒。倉欠自驚空積粒。地盈方喜正堆綃。香梢鎖久何遲秀。暖岸侵多想急消。襄遣穢歸融渙渙。簸迎風付弄搖搖。章成快却君才騁。賞好規將我友招。霜雹儷渠知互凜。火煙銷汝反深澆。強丁選可因連獵。老僕煩令屢續樵。羊卽是兮均色粲。蝶爲誰也恨英凋。郞兒壯合擎鷹鷂。老叟衰便厚狢貂。囊罄已愁方酒斷。子呵頻愧尙棋饒。芳心斂到花開晚。冽氣收敎水作漂。長嘯偶裁新譜曲。穩調宜奏好笳簫。黃蘆折伏還深溺。翠檜低蒙更躐超。觴酌與同期爾覿。筆騰相敵又誰邀。祥年喜可紛歡謔。笑日圖將破寂寥。康且壽時方事樂。老中閑適足生聊。
Its busy, hurrying force follows suddenly upon the startled wind, and its sound, remote and far off, is fit for sprinkling on a quiet night. The phoenix caves are all avoided, and the red plumage shines; the crane hills are flown over and mingled, and the white down flies. The wall is patched to twice its size and rises high in tiers; the path along the dikes is evenly spread, and whiteness pours down. The rough road is frozen and hinders the quickness of one's step; the house at dusk is cold and takes from the drunken mood its swagger. In the play of the wild children there is a craving to grasp it in the fist; in the heart of the exquisite craftsman the hand paints it out to the life. Hidden away, then putting out a point again, a solitary peak rises; huddled down, then presently forming a shoot, the sprouts come early. Spreading like thread it comes finer and finer: many, yet small; wavering like willow catkins it goes lightly: near, yet far. Glittering shadows ought to be looked at night after night, and its fair form is lovely—I would see it morning after morning. Adorned and spread over, the fair shape comes out of the earth; pressed down and overturned, the wood bends its back and its waist. Forgetting to go out at the alley gate, I stray on the blocked road; gladly seeking the trees of the garden, I find every branch fully laid out. I realize at once that the locusts are buried, sunk early in the soil; I quite suspect that the swans are submerged, and wonder if the tide has risen at last. The daylight grows longer, and it is just now fit to gather in its scattering and screen it; darkness seeps in, and the fair form will presently fall asleep. In the house where the mandarin ducks roost and in the temple halls a monk opens and shuts the gate; in the seats of the hare garden, the Garden of Liang (梁苑), a guest chants a song. To get warm juice into my belly I boil a bowl of tea; my legs sink in the melted juice as I tread the sandy bridge. The cool jacket is shaken out and emptied, so I leave it hanging idle; the glowing charcoal is newly added, and I know it burns fiercely. The storehouse is empty and I am startled of myself: there is no grain heaped there; the ground is full and I am glad just now: white silk is piled high. The fragrant branch tips have been submerged long—how should they be slow to stand out? It has seeped much into the warm hillside, and I think it will soon be gone. The water rises and washes the filth away, and melting it brims over; meeting the wind as though winnowed, it gives itself over and sways in play. The writing is done and refreshing: your talent has galloped; my appreciation of it is good, and I would call my friends to see. Frost and hail are matched with snow, and I know they are cold alike; fire and smoke melt the snow, and it pours down deep once more. Sturdy men can be chosen and used, and they go hunting one after another; the old servant I trouble with orders, and he carries wood again and again. The sheep is just this thing, its colour evenly dazzling; but for whom is the butterfly? I regret that the flowers have withered. The young man is valiant and fit to bear the hawk and the sparrowhawk; the old man is failing and is at ease in a thick sable coat. The purse being empty, I am already in care: just now the wine has run out; chidden by you, I am often ashamed—but I have chess enough still. The flowering heart draws itself in, and the blossoming is late; the bitter air is gathered up, and the water comes to flow. Chanting long, I happen to make a new tune, and an even tune is fitting to be offered up on a good pipe and flute. The yellow reeds are broken and lie prostrate, and are sunk deeper still; the green hard pine is covered low and leaps across again. Sharing the cup together, I make a tryst to meet you; and plying the brush against each other, whom else should I call? Glad of the auspicious sun, I laugh merrily in confusion, and with these laughing days I would presently break up the solitude. In a time of health and long life I just now make joy my business, and idle and well off in old age, joy arises in me amply.