Admiring Vice Censor Yang’s Pure Prose
- Poetry of Qian Qi

Since Boya’s art was lost to time,

His broken strings found none to climb.

Who knew after his highest song,

A strain more rare would come along?

Peaks layering peaks, streams crystal-clear—

Their rival motions crash and veer.

Yet your pure prose needs no outdoors,

All scenes alive behind closed doors.

Mists and snows fill your breast’s hold,

Orchids pile in your lap’s fold.

Moonlight on jade-green pools takes shape,

A Kunlun-jade without escape.

First, you sang ‘Spring Sunlight’ bright—

Dead wood flushed with young buds’ light.

Then ‘White Snow’ chills your tongue—

At once, clouds freeze where notes are flung.

Thus we learn Creation’s source

Contracts, expands at heart’s discourse.

Such writing’s rare; its cleansing power—

Could ink-stained sleeves ever devour?

Let me stitch these words in silk,

To wear close as eternal milk.

层峰与清流，逸势竞奔蹙。

清文不出户，仿像皆在目。

雾雪看满怀，兰荃坐盈掬。

孤光碧潭月，一片昆仑玉。

初见歌阳春，韶光变枯木。

再见吟白雪，便觉云肃肃。

则知造化源，方寸能展缩。

斯文不易遇，清爽心岂足。

愿言书诸绅，可以为佩服。