The spring river's surging tide seems to merge with the sea, and the bright moon over the sea rises with it. Moonlight shimmers along the waves, spreading for countless miles: what part of the spring river lacks its radiant glow? The winding river circles fields of fragrant grasses and abundant flowers; moonlight falls on the flowering woods as though fine white ice pellets covered them. White frost seems to drift through the air, yet none can be seen falling; the pale sand on the shoal blends with the moonlight until they are hard to distinguish.

River and sky share one color, without a trace of dust; in the clear heavens there is only a solitary moon. Who first saw this moon beside the river, and in what year did the river moon first shine upon people? Human generations follow one another without end, while the moon over the river looks much the same year after year. I do not know whom the river moon awaits; I see only the Yangtze endlessly sending its waters away.

A white cloud drifts slowly away; at Qingfeng Riverbank, sorrow is beyond telling. Whose traveler rides a little boat tonight, and where is someone in a tower longing beneath the moon? How poignant, the moonlight lingering over that tower—it must be shining on the parted one's dressing table. Rolling up the curtain cannot roll it away; brushing it from the washing stone only lets it shine there again.

At this moment we gaze at the same bright moon, yet cannot exchange messages; if only I could flow with its light and shine beside you. However far wild geese fly, they cannot escape this boundless moonlight; fish and dragons leaping beneath the water can only stir successive ripples. Last night I dreamed of falling flowers beside a quiet pool; alas, spring is already half gone, and I still cannot return home. The river carries spring away, and spring will soon be spent; the setting moon above the pool tilts westward again.

The slanting moon slowly sinks into sea mist; from Jieshi in the north to Xiaoxiang in the south stretch endless roads. Who knows how many can return by moonlight; the setting moon stirs the feelings of parting, scattering them through the riverside woods.

滟滟 (yàn): the shimmer of light on rippling water. 芳甸 (diàn): open country covered with fragrant grasses, flowers, and trees. 霰 (xiàn): tiny ice pellets, here used to liken the appearance of flowers under moonlight. 汀: flat ground or a small islet beside the water.

纤尘: the finest specks of dust. 月轮: the full moon. 穷已: to come to an end. 青枫浦: a shore where green maples grow, also carrying the traditional associations of a place of parting.

扁舟子: someone traveling far in a small boat. 可怜: lovely or deserving of tenderness, with sympathy implied according to context. 玉户: a splendid doorway. 砧 (zhēn): a stone used for pounding clothes.

月华: moonlight. 水成文: ripples form on the water; 文 is used for “纹” (“patterns” or “ripples”). 闲潭: a secluded, tranquil pool.

碣石: a mountain in the north. 潇湘: the region of the Xiao and Xiang rivers in Hunan. Mentioning the two together emphasizes immense separation; they need not be understood as a confirmed itinerary for the figures in the poem.

Reading guide: Using an old Music Bureau title, Zhang Ruoxu takes a moonlit spring river as the shared setting for natural beauty, the continuation of life, and the mutual longing of travelers and the women awaiting them. The poem has thirty-six lines, linked throughout by the moon's rising, lingering, westward descent, and setting, which form a clear progression through time.

The opening unfolds with the rising tide of river and sea, then moves to flowering groves, white sand, and a solitary moon. The view shifts from broad to fine detail, its tones growing purer. Within this clarity, the poet asks “何人初见月,” who first saw the moon, and appreciation of nature turns toward reflection on humanity and time.

The second half moves beyond life in general to place the sorrow of separation at two ends: a little boat and a dressing chamber in a tower. Moonlight lets those far apart share the same scene while repeatedly reminding them that they cannot meet. “卷不去” (cannot be rolled away) and “拂还来” (returns when brushed aside) especially make intangible longing into an inescapable presence nearby.

The final section deepens the melancholy of an uncertain return through spring's approaching end and the setting moon. The ending offers no answer of reunion; instead, it disperses longing among tree shadows filling the river, letting personal sorrow merge again with the vast world of the opening.