In the 11th century, Hsiao Kuan dreamed that he was taken to a palace where the women were goddesses or transcendents. All were dressed in green. One of them gave him a piece of paper and said: “This is ripple paper. Would you please write a poem about a winter morning?”
He wrote:
The twelve towers of the palace hide women dressed in green.
Wine flows from lion-spouts, spiced and fragrant,
trickling through tubes called “thirsty crows.”
A servant turns the pulley, red liquid jade spurts out.
Incense barely smoking, lotus candles almost gone,
the five dragons of the clepsydra overflow with chilly water.
Unaccompanied ladies, fish pendants dangling from crimson sashes,
stand on tiptoe to watch the sun come up, far off in Fu-sang.
A half-disk lifts above the ripples and the reddening duckweed in the lake.
The women turn, look back over the rooftops at the colors of clouds.
Courtiers with swords clanging descend from the sky.
Tall hats and armor fill the pavilion hall.
The transcendent read it and said: “Your poem certainly contains many unusual phrases.”