Things may diverge as fine as nine ox hairs,
Yet principles meet like cranes crying on shores.
Facing mountains, dizzy eyes lose their way;
Mountain spirits must laugh at their own dismay.
Mount Lu's grace defies description in full,
Mist and haze surge like seas in endless pull.
A virtuous eye sees Heaven's craft so clear,
Even Li Zhu's gaze could not make it disappear.
The hall overlooks a realm of misty flight,
Spacious, free from worldly toil and plight.
A thousand wonders in fixed form reside,
Like meeting comrades in a market wide.
We need a painter's broad and sweeping hand,
To capture details as fine as grains of sand.
I hear the cups and guests were rich in lore,
Scrolls still breathe the elegant arts of yore.
I climb this hall, lamenting twilight's hue,
The immortal now rides the sea-turtle blue.
Before me, peaks rise thirty-eight thousand feet,
Tiantai's beauty finds no equal, no feat.
My mind whirls, lost in awe, without a clue,
Peering and gazing, I scratch my head anew.
The master rides phoenixes, purple and white,
With Han Zhong ahead and Lu Ao in sight.
A jade boy holds peaches of azure hue,
Shuangcheng and Zhiqiong play cloud-music true.
My spirit roams, not yet to this mountain bound,
Leaning, I gaze with sorrow profound.
The dusty world's confines are prison bars,
I only feel the virtuous one's heights and stars.