Canonical Classics ← 第五十九回
第五十九回
tángsānzànghuǒyànshān
sūnxíngzhě調tiáojiāoshàn

Tripitaka's Road Is Blocked at the Mountain of Flames · Sun the Pilgrim Contrives the First Fetching of the Banana-Leaf Fan

薄雲西風
模式 Mode Read Study
拼音 Pinyin Off
字體 Script
原文 Original text 繁體 Traditional Reader's edition 含詞賦 With rhapsody

薄雲西風 Thin Cloud And West Wind

dànjiàndànjiàn

yúnduànjué西fēngjǐnmíngyuǎnxiùshuānglínjǐnyúnduànjué西fēngjǐnmíngyuǎnxiùshuānglínjǐn
guāngjǐngzhèngcāngliángshānchángshuǐgèngchángguāngjǐngzhèngcāngliángshānchángshuǐgèngcháng
zhēnghóngláiběisàixuánniǎoguīnánzhēng鸿hóngláiběisàixuánniǎoguīnán
qièdānrónghánqièdānrónghán

逐句解 Line by line

dànjiàn dànjiàn

And this is what they saw:

The narrator stops the story to show a picture. 但見那 is one of the standard phrases that announces a set-piece poem, rather like a stage direction.

yúnduànjué西fēngjǐnmíngyuǎnxiùshuānglínjǐn yúnduànjué西fēngjǐnmíngyuǎnxiùshuānglínjǐn

Thin cloud broken and scattered, the west wind keen; a crane calling from far peaks, the frosted woods like brocade.

Broken cloud, a hard west wind, a crane, frost. takes the literary in verse rather than the everyday báo. xiù is properly a cave in a mountain, and by extension the peak itself.

guāngjǐngzhèngcāngliángshānchángshuǐgèngcháng guāngjǐngzhèngcāngliángshānchángshuǐgèngcháng

The prospect all bleak and grey; the mountains long, the waters longer.

is cháng, "long," at both places in this line — not the zhǎng of growing up. The parallel positions force it.

zhēnghóngláiběisàixuánniǎoguīnán zhēng鸿hóngláiběisàixuánniǎoguīnán

Travelling geese come down to the northern marches; the dark birds go home to the southern lanes.

Birds keeping the calendar. is sài, a frontier fort or the frontier itself, not the sāi of plugging a hole. 玄鳥, the "dark bird," is the swallow, whose departure south is one of the oldest markers of the season.

qièdānrónghán qièdānrónghán

On a traveller's road one shrinks from being alone; a patched robe grows cold soon enough.

The poem finally comes down to a person. 衲衣 is the robe patched together from cast-off scraps that a mendicant wears — the standard shorthand for a monk. It ends on cold, which the very next line of prose will turn inside out.


總評 Commentary

The poem is a completely conventional autumn scene, and that is the point of it: broken cloud, a keen west wind, a crane on far peaks, frost-brocaded woods, geese heading north and swallows south. Any reader of the period would have known every item. What the verse does is certify the season on the authority of poetry itself, rather than on any character's say-so.

Only the last two lines get personal. 客路 — the traveller's road — and a patched robe that "grows cold soon enough" bring the whole wide panorama down onto four cold bodies a very long way from home. That narrowing is the only real move the poem makes.

Placed where it is, the poem works as evidence. The pilgrims start sweating a line later, and the reader has just been shown, in the most unimpeachable style available, that it ought to be freezing.