With a pure note he welcomes the evening moon,
With sad thoughts he stands on cold bulrush.
Red head and cheeks like His-shih's;
Frosty feathers and beard all white like the Four Venerable Old Men's.
Beneath jasper clouds, moving and stopping restlessly;
To him the spirit of the white egret is coarse.
All day long without the companionship of a flock;
By the side of the gully he laments his shadow's solitude.