Emerald Ch’u mountain peaks and cliffs,
emerald Han River flowing full and fast:
Meng’s writing survives here, its elegant
ch’i now facets of changing landscape.
But today, chanting the poems he left us
and thinking of him, I find his village
clear wind, all memory of him vanished.
Dusk light fading, Hsiang-yang empty,
I look south to Deer-Gate Mountain, haze
lavish, as if some fragrance remained,
but his old mountain home is lost there:
mist thick and forests all silvered azure.
translated by David Hinton