South of Hsien-yang,
gazing in a straight line for five thousand miles,
I see the soaring crags and spires of clouded ranges.
There before me the Sword Gallery cuts across,
Suspended from the sky
to provide a passage through the center.
Up above are
pine winds that rustle, whistle, sough, and sigh;
And there the gibbons of Pa, sadly crying to one another.
On every side
flying chutes rush through the chasms,
Spattering stones, splashing the Gallery,
surging and gushing with frightening thunder.
Sending off my beautiful friend. Now the parting!
I wonder when that day. His coming home!

While gazing after him — what end to feelings?
With sad notes deep inside — I sigh and moan.
I watch as the azure waves go coursing eastward,
And grieve as the white sun is hidden in the west.
A wild goose takes leave of Yen — those autumn noises.
The clouds bring sorrow to Ch'in — this evening light.
But, oh, when the bright moon appears above
the Sword Gallery,
Let us have some wine together in our two villages,
thinking of one another.