Presented to Secretary Zhang on the Night of the Mid-Autumn Festival (Han Yu)

Thin clouds curl away in all directions, the celestial river unseen in the sky. Clear wind sweeps the night sky, the moon unfurls its waves of light. The sandbar is level, no ripples rise, sound and shadow both vanish; I raise my cup to urge you—you should sing aloud. Your song is bitter, your words so mournful, before I finish hearing, tears fall like rain. Lake Dongting stretches to the horizon, the Nine Doubts Mountains tower into the clouds; dragons emerge and vanish, gibbons and flying squirrels wail in sorrow. You barely escaped death nine times to reach your place of exile, living in seclusion, silent, like a fugitive hiding. You fear snakes when stepping from your bed, dread poison at meals; the coastal dampness steams, everywhere foul and rank. Yesterday the drum thundered before the prefectural court—the new emperor ascended, employing worthy ministers like Kui and Gaoyao. The amnesty edict travels ten thousand leagues in a day; all criminals below death sentence are pardoned. The exiled are recalled, the banished return; filth is cleansed, the court purged of villains. The prefecture reported your name, but the inspector suppressed it; fate is cruel—you are merely transferred to the barbarous Jing region. Serving as a minor judge is beneath mention, yet you cannot escape the shame of lying prostrate for the lash. Most of those exiled with you have already started homeward, but the path of office is treacherous, hard to climb. Stop your song a while, and listen to mine—my song is quite different from yours. Of all the year's moons, tonight's is fullest and brightest; life is determined by fate, not by other things—if we have wine and do not drink, how can we face this bright moon!