Not a sacred peak? Then don't call it 'Yue';
This mountain justifies the name.
A lofty man dwells in chaotic times,
How many places fill his front porch?
Its beauty makes a home for immortals,
Its numen is the root of wind and rain.
Its spreading shade covers Chu's fields,
A single pillar marks Wu's gate.
In stillness, it gains the Eight Lords as companions;
Majestically, it overlooks the Nine Sons with respect.
Facing it still greens and soothes the eye,
Arriving must chill and congeal the soul.
Its presence makes vast lakes yield,
Its form is hard for seven marshes to swallow.
Black cliffs hide daylight lightning,
Purple mists float in the morning sun.
Lotuses falling—not just Mount Hua;
Jade burning—comparable to lesser Kunlun.
Fallen pines slightly crack open,
Distant flying waterfalls leave traces.
Layered clouds are seen as adornment,
Ridges gather snowy air, turning dim.
Composing poetry once stumped Xie Lingyun,
Writing a rhapsody, by chance, lacks a Sun Chuo.
Flowing streams deflect starlight,
Startling, they charge through goose formations, scattering them.
Peaks, strange, cold, lean on swords;
Springs, winding, swirl like basins.
Short grass separates young pheasants,
Bright woods reveal throwing gibbons.
Autumn maples scatter red leaves,
Spring stones in valleys thunder.
Lovely moon on Tiger Stream road,
Deep mist at Chestnut Village source.
Drunk chanting often easily wakes,
Dreams departing also dissolve worries.
One feels the south's weight,
No doubt the thick earth is upheaved.
Hearing of old customs of Qingyang,
Truly it's used to pacify the common people.