Plum Ridge's fame long told,
Woods and pavilions tower bold.
To climb is truly hard,
Its secluded beauty sets the standard.
Chu's plains stretch a thousand miles,
Wu's river winds with smiles.
Distinct in form, all greatly vary,
How could a cave-dweller know this scenery?
Flying towers span the sky,
Travelers' sails drop before the eye.
South, grand battlements stand steep,
North, phoenix terrains in a heap.
Spring's three months blaze in charm,
A hundred blooms, uneven, disarm.
Wind-blown peaches brocade the land,
Luoyang bamboos half-veil the stream, misty and grand.
Swallows chirp on sunny beams,
Orioles move from warm valley streams.
Stone roots bask in morning mist, jade-green,
Curtains edge with sunset's glow, fresh and keen.
Pathside willows, hard to restrain,
Courtyard sedge, drunk, best for sleep's domain.
Clear and Bright season's even stranger,
Creation's intent seems skewed, a danger.
Not just fit for fine spring view,
Especially must see summer through.
Herb sprouts thick as knots appear,
Vine tendrils fierce as woven gear.
Pearl-like fruits hang low on boughs,
Ice-clear water from the well allows.
Cicada shells on white walls fall,
Sparrow chicks on red rails, playful and small.
Summer's heat faintly perceived,
Cool breezes left and right weaved.
Cloud-peaks suddenly arise,
Sunflower leaves need no fan, wise.
Then see autumn's beauty bright,
Almost like summer's hanging light.
Reddened frost-clad trees stand tall,
Aged fragrance by the pond, in thrall.
Who spread embroidery, water chestnut and foxnut?
Moss learns to coin itself, in every rut.
Hidden insects chirp by steps, sound's trace,
Bright moon teases the curtain, a round face.
Small steps nurture new chrysanthemum's birth,
High eaves clamor with dusk cicadas' mirth.
Rain sounds cold, rustling and sighing,
Wild geese shadows at dawn, linking and flying.
Leaving this, how could one play?
Deep winter even more pitiful, I'd say.
Through the window, short scenes I spy,
Through the trees, layered rivers lie.
Ridges and mounds distinctly emerge,
Firs and pines, their spirit and verve surge.
Songs become 'White Snow' tunes,
Chants are 'Early Plum' runes.
Who understands this creation's art?
Its foundation, the Prefect's wisdom, plays its part.
Sometimes his black canopy stays,
All day long, splendid feasts in arrays.
Who sings of common people's plight?
Wild revels cling to strings, day and night.
Lavish feasts with jade-like food abound,
Coming and going, golden boats astound.
Attendants are most unusual guests,
Jesters resemble immortal behests.
Painted banners display grandeur and might,
Enchanting dancers, graceful and bright.
Banquet ends, heart still clings,
About to leave, lingering interest springs.
Only should worry night pressing near,
How could I tire of admiring year after year?
Lowly and alone, what fortune now is mine?
To climb and join, but by fate's design.
Eyebrows raised, startled by openness found,
Slow steps delight in mingling around.
Chanting, though knowing its toil,
Pushing merit to its limit, mysterious soil.
I merely write these forty rhymes,
Accept blame for lacking refined times.