Song of the Old Cypress

Song of the Old Cypress

Before the temple of Kong Ming stands an old cypress,

Its branches like bronze, its roots like stone.

Bark sleek with rain, forty spans in circumference,

Its dark green piercing the sky, two thousand feet tall.

Clouds come and its vapor stretches to the length of Wu Gorge,

The moon rises and its cold whiteness links to Snow Mountain.

Ruler and minister had already met their moment in time,

Yet the tree still is cherished by men.

I recall yesterday when my road wound east of Brocade Pavilion,

The First Lord and the Martial Marquis shared one sacred hall.

Lofty and ancient, its trunk and branches rise above the wilds,

Deep and dim, its painted doors and windows stand empty.

Isolated and aloof, though it holds firm ground,

In the vast height, it endures fierce winds.

Its support comes naturally from the power of the divine,

Its uprightness is wrought by the craft of creation.

When a great hall needs beams and rafters to keep from falling,

Ten thousand oxen would turn their heads—its weight is that of hills.

Without displaying its pattern, the world already marvels,

Yet it does not refuse the axe—who could carry it away?

Its bitter heart cannot escape the ants,

Its fragrant leaves at last hosted the phoenix overnight.

Let not the noble recluse or the secluded scholar sigh in resentment—

Since ancient times, great timber has been hard to put to use.