Poetry Sam

Speak of the Blessed Islands men from the Ocean’s brim. Truth is hid in their endless billows and mist-wreaths dim. Tell of the T’ien-mu Mountain men in the land of Yore, Seen there, when rainbows scatter, and clouds conceal no more! Reaching up to the zenith, the skyline it seems to fill, Huge like the Sacred Mountains piled over Ch’ihch’eng Hill. T’ien-t’ai Mountain is fifty myriads of feet in height, Crushing, about to fall, soaring in awful might! Seeing, I longed to dream of Wu and the land of Yore: Flew one night on a moonbeam over the Mirror’s shore. Moon, that reflected my shadow dark on the lake below, Carried me thence to Yen-ch’i, land that the spirits know. Place where the ancient Hsieh dwelt is yet to be seen. Gibbons howl by the water dimpling so purely green. Bound on my feet the clogs were used by Hsieh of old, Mounting the dun clouds ladder, halfway up I behold Sea and Sun; and I hear mystic carols in Space. Crags and hollows commingled, hard is the road to trace. Flower-drugged, I lean on a