To enter the Way, one must not cling to form;
Emerging from trance, I found a sweet spring.
I rose to seek the realm of meditation,
Vaguely imagining the mountain's peak.
Four men tread on the rugged path,
For miles we heard the murmuring stream.
Following the sound to the perilous cliff,
We were satisfied with its sweet, fresh flow.
Though deep, the stones could be counted;
Too clear, the fish were hard to catch.
It divides into silken ribbons flowing away,
Splashing into round pearls of water.
A single glimpse dispels the lingering drunkenness;
Three sips cure the deep-seated illness.
Dazed, I still suspect it's a dream;
Shouting for joy, I nearly go mad.
The mountain stream is shorter than a well;
Drinking seawater only produces bitter saliva.
Who knew the Way was so near,
Almost left as a forgotten sage in the wild?
Events indeed arise from human effort,
Things become beautiful for those who understand.
Who will accompany me to wander by the Hao River?
I trust I carry the heavens within my room.
Though there are no ten-foot flowers,
Within lies a single drop of Chan.
Famous wine seems especially fine;
Suitable tea must be constantly brewed.
The Orchid Pavilion's floating cups grow cold,
The fish-bellied bamboo slips remain connected.
New writings come from afar,
Opening the scroll, the sound of water still murmurs.
I long to take my lute and go,
By the flowing stream, listening incompletely.
Not only receiving with the ear,
But perhaps the spirit comes first.
I write this as the "Dream Spring Melody,"
To be included among the Music Bureau songs.
Advancing, then retreating again,
All things are left to fate.