The Heavenly Banner's scattered stars net the tops of the bamboos;

My wood hut overlooks the river, its brushwood gate, tightly shut.

The spring wind puffs the dawn, the moon's jade toad totters;

Thick dew washes the sky, the Milky Way looms high.

Two magpies circle a branch, weary for good reason;

A lone cricket chirps by the wall, sounding bold enough.

The new autumn is just right for inspiring poetry,

I mustn't copy Pan Yue, sighing over two little white hairs on his head!

A staff helps me climb a flagstone path slippery with ancient moss,

While waves crash and roar beneath me, ready to fly into the air.

Walking wearily along the capital's streets, you can't see such a sight;

Let the river's snowy foam splash the dust from my traveling clothes!

At dusk the cold's so bitter, even ravens are scarce;

The snow attacks head on, like sand or gravel in a duststorm.

My cotton quilt is cold as iron and soaked through and through;

I dream of the spring wind arriving to lift winter's siege.

But I never could have imagined the strange thing that happened:

At midnight my paper windows started to glow in the dark!

Outside the Buddha had conjured up a jewel-spangled world of cotton;

Even Dark Winter did not begrudge his treasure of jade snow. […]