Here, where you spent your three years' exile,
To be mourned in Ch'u ten thousand years,
Can I trace your footprint in the autumn grass —
Or only slanting sunlight through the bleak woods?
If even good Emperor Wên was cold-hearted,
Could you hope that the dull river Hsiang would understand you,
These desolate waters, these taciturn mountains,
When you came, like me, so far away?