From the twelve Hills of the Witches I see the Nine Peaks rise;
Beyond my prows a myriad tints flush autumn's empty skies.
Untrue the legend, "Morning clouds, and evening rain,"
The howling of gibbons in bright moonlight fills the plain.
When long June days begin
I wander to Nan-pin,
And moor my boat to a little quay
Where monkeys swing from tree to tree.
Now shadows gloom Ch‘u Yüan's grey memorial;
And by the tomb of Yü red roses fall.