In Po-ti town the watchman's rap is over for tonight.
On Yang-t'ai Hill the dawn grows up from darkness into light.
Upon the lofty mountain peaks the sunlight glances chill.
Below o'er masséd ranges sleep the night-dark cloudlets still.
Above the river's bank up peers a slowly gliding sail.
The day so clear makes audible each falling leaflet frail.
Beside the gate of woven thorn pass by a pair of deer.
Ah! could I join your troop to go where fairies linger near!