Immortals invite me to tour Penglai Isle,
A white crane follows, picking jade herbs all the while.
A guiding spirit points, the cave gate swings open wide,
Before and behind, the Shangshan elders stride.
The rugged stone path forks like a swallow's tail,
Dew soaks the flat peach, bending bamboo pale.
One hill, ten thousand hills, deep in cloud's breath,
The pearl trees in the wind are touched by frosty death.
Wang Qiao descends from heaven, faint and fair,
The world allows our lofty feelings to pair.
Among them is one called Anqi, with a grin,
Holds a golden basin with melon and jujube in.
Eating these grants life eternal, so they say,
Roaming the eight poles, ascending heaven's way.
Sometimes thirty thousand miles in a single day,
West wind, crane-bone light, in rosy cloud array.
Sometimes again, a momentary rest is found,
A long song congeals the misty clouds around.
High hangs an iron lock, moss ancient and hoar,
They say it's the immortals' Purple Heaven's floor.
In straw sandals, bamboo staff, with careful tread,
A crimson phoenix flies down, to men its dance is spread.
Cloud-hidden fowls and hounds—a world apart,
The medicine tripod, alchemy stove—a painstaking art.
Open the window, drink three hundred cups in cheer,
Eaves' blossoms scatter like rain from heaven sheer.
Blues, reds, blacks, greens dazzle before the eye,
Ten thousand grasses, thousand flowers, none can tally.
Bewildered, I brush my sleeves and descend the hill,
In the mirror, my white hair, disheveled, I see still.