The poems of Po are unequalled.

His thoughts are never categorical, but fly high in the wind.

His poems are clear and fresh as those of Yü, the official;

They are fine and easy as those of Pao, the military counsellor.

I am North of the river Wei, looking at the Spring trees;

You are East of the river, watching the sunset clouds.

When shall we meet over a jug of wine?

When shall I have another precious discussion of literature with you?