望海潮·东南形胜

The southeast, a land of strategic splendor; the great city of the Three Wu; Qiantang, from of old, has been prosperous. Misty willows and painted bridges, wind-blown curtains and green screens, in tier on tier a hundred thousand households. Cloud-trees ring the sandy dike, angry breakers roll up frost and snow, and the natural moat runs on without bound. The markets display pearls and jade; the houses are heaped with silks, all vying in splendor.

The twin lakes and the folded peaks are pure and fair; there are cassia blossoms in autumn, lotus stretching for ten li. The Qiang pipes play in fine weather, the water-caltrop pickers’ songs float out at night; merry, merry, the old fishermen and the lotus girls. A thousand riders attend the tall standard; drunken, one listens to flutes and drums, chanting and admiring the misty rosy clouds. Some other day I will draw this fine scene, and going home, boast of it at the Phoenix Pool.