| an ascent 徐忠杰译
A stiff breeze is up; the vault of heaven seems high. / Monkeys on the hills are making their plaintive cry. / The islets become clearer; the sandbanks, clean and white; / Water-birds are hovering over them in their flight. / For miles around, rustling leaves are falling without pause. / The Yang-tze-kiang is tumbling on in its onward course. / Far from home, autumn strikes me as adding to my grief. / An invalid, I mount the heights alone for relief. / Long suffering has left its cruel mark on my hair. / I’ve ceased anew to drink in utter despair. |
