All day I lean on heights, pacing the terrace and tower,
My spirit soars, shaking off worldly ties and power.
A myriad wondrous forms, traces of the divine,
Like jade peaks arrayed, piercing the vastness fine.
The Nodding Rock seems poised to move with might,
The Sword-Testing Crag stands sheer, as if cut sharp and bright.
The Sword Pool in the ridge, deep-dredged without dismay,
Is carved by Nature's craft, in a wondrous way.
The cold spring soaks the cloud-roots, clear and profound,
Its source never dries, though drought burns the ground.
Spraying pearls, splashing crystal, leaving no trace,
Like countless gems strung on a sparse lattice's face.
No master painter's hand could such a scene portray,
Not a speck of dust finds here a place to stay.
The monks' abode claims all the finest mountain view,
Towers high and low, half painted in vermilion hue.
The noon meal in silence, mountain winds whisper low,
The broken wind chimes on four eaves sway to and fro.
At first I thought the East Sea turned its turtle's back,
And Penglai's weak waters lay in the west, a track.
A thousand crags, ten thousand gullies, never tire the eye,
I deem all other mountains mere dregs, low and dry.
I came here as an immortal's aide, by fate,
To leave the dusty world and roam, early and late.
Had not the fairy guest prepared the way for me,
How could I gain this glimpse of mountains, wild and free?
Then I know worldly bustle is but a vain strife,
Better to dwell content in a tranquil life.
With a long whistle, I brush my robe, ready to depart,
For my old hills also have a pact with cloud and spring at heart.