The Waters of Lung-t'ou
( THE NORTH-WEST FRONTIER )
The road that I came by mounts eight hundred feet:
The river that I crossed hangs a hundred fathoms.
The brambles so thick that in summer one cannot pass,
The snow so high that in winter one cannot climb!
With branches that interlace Lung Valley is dark:
Against cliffs that tower one's voice beats and echoes.
I turn my head, and it seems only a dream
That I ever lived in the streets of Hsien-yang.
The road that I came by mounts eight hundred feet:
The river that I crossed hangs a hundred fathoms.
The brambles so thick that in summer one cannot pass,
The snow so high that in winter one cannot climb!
With branches that interlace Lung Valley is dark:
Against cliffs that tower one's voice beats and echoes.
I turn my head, and it seems only a dream
That I ever lived in the streets of Hsien-yang.
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