diào jiǎo duàn qīng qiū,
zhēng rén yǐ xū lóu。
chūn fēng duì qīng zhǒng,
bái rì luò liáng zhōu。
dà mò wú bīng zǔ,
qióng biān yòu kè yóu。
fān qíng sì cǐ shuǐ,
cháng yuàn xiàng nán liú。
Though a bugle breaks the crystal air of autumn,
Soldiers, in the look-out, watch at ease today
The spring wind blowing across green graves
And the pale sun setting beyond Liangzhou.
For now, on grey plains done with war,
The border is open to travel again;
And Tartars can no more choose than rivers:
They are running, all of them, toward the south.