In May, the imperial road level stone
setting out, I ascend T’ai Mountain.
A six-dragon sun crossing ten thousand
ravines, valley streams meandering away,
I leave horse tracks winding through
emerald peaks all green moss by now,
water bathing cliffs in spray, cascades
headlong in flight. Among wailing pines,
I gaze north at wild headwalls, tilting
rock crumbling away east, and over
stone gates standing closed, lightning
storms rise from the bottom of earth.
Higher up, I see islands of immortals,
sea-visions all silver and gold towers,
and on Heaven’s Gate, chant devotions.
A pure ten-thousand-mile wind arrives,
and four or five jade goddesses come
drifting down from the nine distances.
Smiling, they entice me empty-handed,
pour out cup-loads of dusk-tinted cloud.
I bow, then bow again, deeper, ashamed
I haven’t an immortal’s talent. And yet,
boundless, I can dwindle time and space
away, losing the world in such distances!