It is June when the south wind blows the white sand,
And the oxen pant under the moon, their gusty breath turning to mist.
The lowland air is humid and suffocating, and it is hard to bear.
There is no coach on the long road in the burning heat.
What do you think of going by way of the river?
You leave for Chin-ling, hoisting your sail high to the breeze.
Your parents are waiting and watching for you, leaning against the gate.
In Luh-chung there is the home of your childhood.
My family live for the time at the Sand Hill;
I have not returned for three years, and they are distracted.
Please, go and see them!—You know Po-chin, my boy.
He must be running his toy cart and riding on the back of a white sheep.