After frost, Jing and Wu lean against the heavenly mountain,
Its iron hue, ten thousand fathoms high, gleams sharp and bright.
Magū Peak, most splendid, pierces the eastern extreme,
A single summit stands erect, towering and grand.
My wit was born beneath the heroes and the brave,
Long have I traced remote paths, dwelling among the weeds.
Like a fine steed treading the celestial road,
Who would discuss reining in a nag with six reins?
The cliff's peak in early winter knows no ice nor snow,
Moss flowers touch my shoes, thoughts I cannot trim.
Tall pines flank the path, covering ten li,
Their austere visage, steadfast spirit, cannot be turned.
Floating clouds, willow catkins, what hinders you?
To wish to go yet halt yourself—truly foolish!
By the south window, sages' legacy texts remain,
Each character on the full scroll pours out jade-like gems.
Searching widely, probing far, I find the door and window,
Entering to see the deep hall, how majestic and grand!
Daily they make my withered thoughts lose their dryness,
Like water's irrigation, a continuous nourishing flow.
For a thousand years, great teachings buried in wild neglect,
Who can cultivate an inch of soil on the path of righteousness?
Alas, my plans truly unforeseen by myself,
I wish to hold back the setting sun from its western fall.
I've heard in ancient times Yu was called wise,
Passing his door, no leisure to cherish his own child.
How much more now, a frail man dares a stout task,
Strength exhausted, how could there remain a speck of dust?
The Dragon Pool's waterfall pours into my heart,
I sigh, but only thank Zong and Lei.
Writing books—how could it promptly bring remedy?
Under heaven, since ancient times, there have been no capable talents.