——A Variation Of A Petrarchan Sonnet

There once was a duke who shot in the open,

Without rivals, but with conceited delight.

Until the day on which his pride was broken,

When stunned by a lowly, old peasant in sight.

The old man viewest the duke with sideways eyes.

Hours for which he stood still, refusing to part,

Regarding the duke’s arrows, center they lie,

Without praise nor grovel, but with little heart.

‘Thou knowest shooting to see that I shoot well?’

Queried the duke with lofty pride like fire,

Yet to find the commoner with none to tell,

But attribute all to practice most dire.

‘On what thou depend to show contempt at me?’

Cried the duke, nothing but anger to maintain.

‘The humble art of pouring on which I feed,’

Voiced the farmer with a reply of disdain.

A gourd on the ground did the old peasant place,

Topped at its mouth with a center-hollow coin.

Astonished to find the coin with no oil glazed,

As the oil streamed down, at the gourd’s mouth it joined.

The man had poured oil into that tiny mouth!

It appeareth that the same talent must serve!

To gasping spectators which he offered loud:

‘Such perfection is but mere practice preserved.’

Down at his bow did the duke now trace his glance,

To comprehend wisdom from this meet of chance!

Tis the first time I try to write in this fashion as in a sonnet. Undoubtedly mistakes exist in considerable numbers. It would be my pleasure to receive critical feedback and spiritual guidance. I wish you have fun reading this translation of the Classical Chinese article, authored by the famous Ou-yang Hsiu.

Written by Michael

作者：高一（7）班 宋致达
责任编辑：王泰瑞