Zhang Shao said: 'Brother Li, I have just presumed to speak the opening lines; now it is your turn, elder brother — you begin a couplet, and I, your younger, will carry it on.'

僭先 is 'to presume to go first,' the standard apology for having spoken ahead of your elder. 起一聯 is to compose the opening 聯, or couplet, and 續之 to carry it on. The courtesy frames a second round of linked verse, though what actually follows stands as Li Ding's own sustained 排律. 當 in 亦當 is dāng, 'ought to.'

A wind-and-moon madman by pretense, a fellow of the hills and wilds; on rivers and lakes I lodge my pride, an old man past his service years.

佯狂 is 'to feign madness,' a recognized disguise for a man who wants to be left alone. 寄傲, 'to lodge one's pride,' echoes Táo Qián, the great poet of retirement from office; 老餘丁 is an old surplus conscript, no longer carried on the manpower rolls.

Of pure leisure I have my share, and follow where freedom leads; of wrangling tongues I hear nothing, and delight in the peace of the times.

有分 is to have your portion of something, and 瀟灑 is free ease — a word still in daily use for anyone who carries himself with unforced style. 口舌, 'mouth and tongue,' is strife; 太平 is the peace of a well-ordered age.

On moonlit nights I sleep sound in my thatched hut; when the sky darkens I cover myself with a light bamboo-leaf cape.

穩 is 'secure, sound.' The 箬簑 is a rain-cape woven from 箬, broad bamboo leaves: the woodcutter's answer to the fisherman's straw one, matched material for material.

Forgetting the self, I make friends of pine and plum; gladly I keep company in the pact of gulls and egrets.

忘情 is 'free of attachment' and 樂意 is 'gladly'; 相 in 相交 is xiāng. 松梅友 and 鷗鷺盟 — friendship with pine and plum, a treaty sworn with gulls and egrets — are classic figures for the recluse whom even wild birds have stopped fearing.

In my heart no scheming after fame or gain; at my ears no sound of shield and spear.

算計 is scheming, and 干戈, 'shield and spear,' is war and its alarms; the couplet renounces ambition and violence in a single breath. (不 is bù before the level tone of 聞.)

As the mood takes me, a single cup of fragrant unstrained wine; to pass the day, three meals of wild-herb broth.

香醪 (xiāng láo) is fragrant unfiltered wine and 野菜羹 a broth of wild greens: the plain fare of the hills, offered as a boast. (一 is yì before 酌.)

Two bundles of firewood serve me for a living; a single rod with hook and line is my whole trade.

為 in 為活計, 'to serve as a livelihood,' is wéi, and 營生 is to make a living; 一 is yì before 竿. The couplet strips both trades down to their bare tools, two bundles of wood and one rod with a line on it.

At leisure I call my little ones to whet the steel axe; in quiet I bid my simple boys mend the old nets.

稚子, young children, takes 子 as zǐ; 憨兒 is 'artless children,' affectionate rather than rude; 繒 (zēng) is the fishing-net. 稚子 and 憨兒 pair the two households' children, as the other poem paired their wives.

When spring arrives I love to watch the willows green; when the season softens I delight to see the reeds turn blue.

時融 is 'when the season grows mild' and 荻蘆 are reeds and rushes. From here the 排律 runs the whole year in order, and it begins, properly, with spring.

In summer, escaping the heat, I trim the new bamboo; in the sixth month, taking the cool, I pluck the tender water-caltrop.

避暑 is to get away from the summer heat and 嫩菱 the young water-caltrop; 乘 in 乘涼, 'to take the cool,' is chéng.

At Frost's Descent the fowl are fat, and I butcher them any day; at the Double Ninth the crabs are plump, and I boil them in season.

Two fixed points in the calendar everybody lived by. 霜降 (Shuāngjiàng), 'Descent of Frost,' is one of the twenty-four solar terms and falls in mid-autumn, with 降 read jiàng; 重陽 (Chóngyáng) is the Double Ninth, where 重 is chóng. 常日宰 is 'to slaughter on any ordinary day.'

When winter comes and the sun is up, I am still deep in sleep; through the nine-nines, though the sky be high, of myself I feel no cold.

數九 counts off the depth of winter in nine stretches of nine days each, and 數 is accordingly shǔ, 'to count.' (還 is hái, 'still.') One oddity is worth flagging: this couplet closes on 寒 (hán), which falls outside the poem's otherwise consistent -eng and -ing rhyme. The irregularity stands in the 世德堂本 and is preserved here rather than tidied away.

Through the eight seasons, in the hills, I give my nature free rein; through the four seasons, on the lake, I let my feelings roam at will.

八節 are the eight seasonal nodes, with 中 read zhōng. 放性 is to let your nature run free and 陶情 to give the feelings free play. 八節 against 四時 pairs mountain with lake across the entire year.

Gathering firewood, I have the very zest of an immortal's household; casting my line, I keep nothing of the worldly form at all.

興 in 仙家興, 'the zest of an immortal's household,' is xìng; 世俗形 is 'the shape of the vulgar world.' One couplet lifts both trades clear of the mundane.

Beyond my door the wild flowers are fragrant and bright; at my boat's prow the green water lies wave upon level wave.

豔豔, brilliant and gorgeous, and 平平, flat and calm, are paired doublings, each word intensifying by repeating itself. Flowering land set against tranquil water.

With my body at peace, I speak not of the Three Ministers' rank; with my nature settled, I am better off than a ten-lǐ city.

三公 are the Three Ducal Ministers, the summit of the whole official pyramid, and 十里城 is a walled city ten lǐ around; 強如 is 'better than.' 身安 and 性定 deliberately echo the fisherman's poem, and they open this poem's rhetorical climax. (不 is bù before 說.)

A ten-lǐ city, for all its high walls, must guard against the general's command; the Three Ministers, for all their eminence, must heed the herald's summons.

The trick is 頂真: end a couplet on a phrase, then open the next with the same phrase, so the argument climbs like a staircase. This couplet takes up 十里城 and 三公位 from the lines just before and turns them inside out. 閫令, 'orders from the gate-sill' (閫 read kǔn), are military commands, and 聽宣 is to await the imperial proclamation. City and minister alike take orders; the recluse alone takes none.

To delight in hills and delight in waters — this is truly rare; I thank Heaven, thank Earth, and thank the bright gods.

樂山樂水 reaches for the Analects — 知者樂水，仁者樂山, 'the wise delight in water, the humane in hills' — and in that idiom 樂 is read yào, 'to take joy in,' neither lè nor yuè. Quoting Confucius gives the whole case a classical warrant, and the threefold 謝 seals it on gratitude. It is the last calm before the storm; the 」 ends the recitation.