Classic Poem

Don't you see how the Running Horse River flows along the edge of the Sea of Snow,
Where vast and wild the brown of level sands reaches to the sky?

The wind howls at night in the ninth month over Lun-t'ai,
And a river full of broken boulders big as bushel baskets
Covers the earth with careening stones blown before the wind.

The Hsiung-nu grass turns yellow now, their horses fit and plump;
West of the Altai Range we see the dust of rebellion fly;
A general of the House of Han campaigns in the distant west.

The general leaves his iron armor on throughout the night;
Troops move out at midnight to the sound of rattling halberds —
The wind cuts like a knifeblade, faces feel the slash.

Snow clings to the horses' coats, their sweat ascends in steam,
Only to turn to ice again on dappled and piebald backs;
Urgent dispatches are drafted in tents, the ink congeals on the stone.

When the Hunnish horsemen hear, their hearts will tremble within;
We know they will not dare to cross their swords and spears with ours:
At the west gate of Chü-shih camp we await the display of your spoils.