chán míng kōng sāng lín,
bā yuè xiāo guān dào。
chū sài rù sài hán,
chù chù huáng lú cǎo。
cóng lái yōu bìng kè,
jiē gòng chén shā lǎo。
mò xué yóu xiá '
ér,
jīn kuā zǐ liú hǎo。
Cicadas complain of thin mulberry-trees
In the Eighth-month chill at the frontier pass.
Through the gate and back again, all along the road,
There is nothing anywhere but yellow reeds and grasses
And the bones of soldiers from You and from Bing
Who have buried their lives in the dusty sand.
...Let never a cavalier stir you to envy
With boasts of his horse and his horsemanship