A Frontier Melody
The snows in Tianshan in the fifth moon are not yet to melt;
No flowers can be seen; howe’er, a bitter cold is felt.
The tune of Willow Twigs is often struck up on the flute,
But not an actual sign for spring has anywhere been spelt.
By day, directed by the drum and gong men charge and fight;
With saddles grasp’d in arms they sleep with vigilance at night.
I wish, with the sharpen’d sword which I’m wearing on the waist,
To capture Loulan and put our foes in a fatal plight.