English Rendering
Westward from the Jade‑Gate Pass the Lintao road doth go,
Where the border‑wind drives in the grit, a sharp, unceasing foe,
That seeks the very mane of the steed. And as I ride,
Temple on temple meets the eye, but in their courts denied
The solace of the bamboo‑grove; while on each wall within
The bow and sword are hung, a silent witness to the din
Of wars that were, or are to be. And we — we only prize
The warrior in his gilded mail, beneath these bitter skies;
The traveller in his peaceful white wins but a cold regard.
Now, in the autumn’s later light, alone, I keep my ward,
And sing my solitary song; while, over all the plain,
The watch‑towers lift their steadfast heads, and will not lift in vain.
