Song of the Ancient Cypress (Du Fu)

In front of the Temple of Zhuge Liang stands an ancient cypress tree, its branches as hard as bronze, its roots as firm as stone.

Frost hangs on its bark, smooth enough to drip rain; its trunk measures forty spans around, and its ink-green crown pierces the clouds, reaching two thousand feet high.

When clouds drift by, its breath connects with the long stretch of Wuxia Gorge; when the moon rises, its chill reaches the white snow of the Western Mountains.

The lord and minister (Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang) met in their time, yet this tree is still cherished by people.

I recall yesterday passing by the east of the Brocade Pavilion, where the First Ruler (Liu Bei) and Marquis Wu (Zhuge Liang) share the same temple.

Its towering branches rise over the ancient plains, while the deep-hued painted windows and doors stand empty and deserted.

Though it stands alone and firmly rooted, occupying a strategic site, its lofty solitude often invites fierce winds.

Its support comes naturally from divine power; its uprightness stems purely from the Creator’s work.

If a great hall were about to collapse, it would be the very beam needed, yet ten thousand oxen cannot move it, for it is as heavy as a mountain.

It does not display its fine grain, yet the world is already amazed; it does not avoid the fate of being cut down, but who could transport it?

How can its bitter heart escape being gnawed by ants and termites? Its fragrant branches will ultimately shelter the phoenix.

Men of ambition and recluses need not sigh in resentment—since ancient times, great timber has always been hard to employ.