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��ʱ��ζ�����ܣ� �а����ƾ���ɮ�� ����һ�⽭��ȥ�� ����ԭ�������ꡣ I CLIMB TO THE LEYOU TOMBS BEFORE LEAVING FOR WUXING Even in this good reign, how can I serve? The lone cloud rather, the Buddhist peace.... Once more, before crossing river and sea, I face the great Emperor\'s mountain-tomb.
�����ɳ��δ���� �Խ�ĥϴ��ǰ���� ���粻�����ɱ㣬 ͭȸ���������ǡ� BY THE PURPLE CLIFF On a part of a spear still unrusted in the sand I have burnished the symbol of an ancient kingdom.... Except for a wind aiding General Zhou Yu, Spring would have sealed both Qiao girls in CopperBird Palace.
������ˮ����ɳ�� ҹ���ػ����Ƽҡ� ��Ů��֪�����ޣ� �����̳���ͥ���� A MOORING ON THE QIN HUAI RIVER Mist veils the cold stream, and moonlight the sand, As I moor in the shadow of a river-tavern, Where girls, with no thought of a perished kingdom, Gaily echo A Song of Courtyard Flowers.
��ɽ����ˮ������ �ﾡ���ϲ�δ�� ��ʮ��������ҹ�� ���˺δ��̴�� A MESSAGE TO HAN CHO THE YANGZHOU MAGISTRATE There are faint green mountains and far green waters, And grasses in this river region not yet faded by autumn; And clear in the moon on the Twenty-Four Bridges, Girls white as jade are teaching flute-music.
���ǽ����ؾ��У� ������ϸ�����ᡣ ʮ��һ�������Σ� Ӯ����¥�������� A CONFESSION With my wine-bottle, watching by river and lake For a lady so tiny as to dance on my palm, I awake, after dreaming ten years in Yangzhou, Known as fickle, even in the Street of Blue Houses.
��������仭���� ����С������ө�� ���ҹɫ����ˮ�� ����ǣţ֯Ů�ǡ� IN THE AUTUMN NIGHT Her candle-light is silvery on her chill bright screen. Her little silk fan is for fireflies.... She lies watching her staircase cold in the moon, And two stars parted by the River of Heaven.
������ʮ���࣬ ��ޢ��ͷ���³��� ����ʮ������·�� ���������ܲ��硣 PARTING I She is slim and supple and not yet fourteen, The young spring-tip of a cardamon-spray. On the Yangzhou Road for three miles in the breeze Every pearl-screen is open. But there\'s no one like her.
����ȴ�������飬 Ψ����ǰЦ���ɡ� �������Ļ�ϧ�� ���˴��ᵽ������ Parting II How can a deep love seem deep love, How can it smile, at a farewell feast? Even the candle, feeling our sadness, Weeps, as we do, all night long.
������ɢ���㳾�� ��ˮ������Դ��� ��ĺ����Թ���� �仨����¥�ˡ� THE GARDEN OF THE GOLDEN VALLEY Stories of passion make sweet dust, Calm water, grasses unconcerned. At sunset, when birds cry in the wind, Petals are falling like a girl s robe long ago.