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Poem	Whence these twelve peaks of Wu-shan! Have they flown into the gorgeous screen From heaven's one corner? Ah, those lonely pines murmuring in the wind! Those palaces of Yang-tai, hovering yonder— Oh, the melancholy of it!— Where the jeweled couch of the king With brocade covers is desolate,— His elfin maid voluptuously fair Still haunting them in vain! Here a few feet Seem a thousand miles. The craggy walls glisten blue and red, A piece of dazzling embroidery. How green those distant trees are Round the river strait of Ching-men! And those ships——they go on, Floating on the waters of Pa. The water sings over the rocks Between countless hills Of shining mist and lustrous grass. How many years since these valley flowers bloomed To smile in the sun ? And that man traveling on the river, Hears he not for ages the monkeys screaming? Whoever looks on this, Loses himself in eternity; And entering the sacred mountains of Sung, He will dream among the resplendent clouds.
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