Before the temple of K"ung Ming stands an ancient cypress
With a trunk of green bronze and a root of stone.
The girth of its white bark would be the reach of forty men,
Its tip of kingfisher-blue is two thousand feet in heaven.
Dating from the days of great rulers and great statesmen,
Their very tree is loved now and honored by the people.
Clouds come to it from far away, from the Wu cliffs,
And the cold moon glistens on its peak of snow ...
East of the Silk Pavilion, yesterday I found
The old ruler and wise statesman both worshiped in one temple,
Whose tree, with curious branches, ages the whole landscape
In spite of the fresh colours of the windows and the doors.
And so firm is the deep root, so established underground,
That its lone lofty boughs can dare the weight of winds,
Its only protection the heavenly power,
Its only endurance the art of its creator ...
When beams are required, to repair a great house,
Though oxen sway ten thousand heads, they can not move a mountain.
A tree writes no memorial, yet people understand
That not unless they fell it, can use be made of it.
Though its bitter heart be tenanted by black and white ants,
Its odorous leaves were once the nest of phoenixes and pheasants ...
Let wise and hopeful men harbour no complaint! —
The greater the timber, the tougher to use.