In front of K’ung-ming Shrine
stands an old cypress,
With branches like green bronze
and roots like granite;
Its hoary bark, far round,
glistens with raindrops,
And blueblack hues, high up,
blend in with Heaven’s:
Long ago Statesman, King
kept Time’s appointment,
But still this standing tree
has men’s devotion;
United with the mists
of ghostly gorges,
Through which the moon brings cold
from snowy mountains.
(I recall near my hut
on Brocade River
Another Shrine is shared
by King and Statesman
On civil, ancient plains
with stately cypress:
The paint there now is dim,
windows shutterless …)
Wide, wide though writhing roots
maintain its station,
Far, far in lonely heights,
many’s the tempest
When its hold is the strength
of Divine Wisdom
And straightness by the work
of the Creator …
Yet if a crumbling Hall
needed a rooftree,
Yoked herds would, turning heads,
balk at this mountain:
By art still unexposed
all have admired it;
But axe though not refused,
who could transport it?
How can its bitter core
deny ants lodging,
All the while scented boughs
give Phoenix housing?
Oh, ambitious unknowns,
sigh no more sadly:
Using timber as big
was never easy!