I climb the mountain of Tsyu-i. I look down on
clear rivers.
Coldly the Syan speeds along, cold as it widens
to meet the sea.
Clouds break into autumn tints, the skies are
flaked with golden foam.
I am now in the foreign regions of Tsin and U;
and countless are the miles of the trackless
way, brushed by the wings of birds alone,
lying between me and my native land.
Now with its half-disk leaning upon some island
sets the evening sun.
The lake is beginning to glow. There soars the
moon from the rim of the far-off sea.
And all my thoughts are plunged into the hardy
loveliness of autumntide.
Northward I wander in dream to Yan, southward
I search for Yuye…
The lotus is falling, falling. The river is jewelled
with autumn hues.
Long, long the wind blows…Long, long the
night wears!
Fain would I grasp the incredible…
Oh! to fly away seaward and dream for a little
by its shores!…
To take from an island in blue ocean the six
monsters—
Alas, there is no such length of line.
My hand caresses the surging wind; I am deeper
drowned in sorrow.
I will away! away! Too strong is the life of
men for me.
There in the magical land of P‘eng-lai I will
gather the grass of immortality.