What left me yesterday
Can be retained no more;
What troubles me today
Is the times for which I feel sore.
In autumn wind for miles and miles the wild geese fly.
Let’s drink, in face of this, in the pavilion high.
Your writing’s forcible like ancient poets while
Mine is in Junior Xie’s clear and spirited style.
Both of us have an ideal high:
We would reach the moon in the sky.
Cut running water with a sword, ’twill faster flow;
Drink wine to drown your sorrow, it will heavier grow.
If we despair of human affairs,
Let us roam in a boat with loosened hairs!