I heard you made your living in a temple on a hill;
Whether Hangzhou or Yuezhou is the place I wonder still.
Dusts have obliterated the day when you started to leave.
The autumn scenes of Jialing River are tinted with grief.
My shadow casts on the tall trees whereon the monkeys howl,
While by the mirage-tower you are drifting like a soul.
I yearn to boat down the spring river by the year to come,
And seek you to the east end where the white clouds roll and comb.