Of satin-wood our boat is made,
     Our oars of ebony;
Jade pipes and gold flutes
     Play at stern and prow.
A thousand gallons of red wine
     We carry in the ship’s hold;
With girls on board at the waves’ will
     We are glad to drift or stay.
Even the rishi had to wait
     For a yellow crane to ride;
But the sailor whose heart had no guile
     Was followed by the white gulls.
Ch’ü P’ing’s prose and verse
     Hang like the sun and moon;
The king of Ch’u’s arbours and towers
     Are only hummocks in the ground.
With my mood at its height I wield my brush
     And the Five Hills quake;
When the poem is done, my laughter soars
     To the Blue Isles of the sky.
Riches, Honour, Triumph, Fame,
     Than that you should long endure,
It were likelier the stream of the River Han
     Should flow to the North-West!