A screen of cloud veils the mountain,
 And cold monkeys squawk from green pines.
 Fungi abound, but seeds dormant,
 Searching for sprouts -- alas, in vain.
 Somewhere near there's a fairy cave
 Where flutes and lutes are often played.
 Its Way is overgrown with moss,
 And the old stone gate yields no clue.
 Where have all the fairy folk gone?

Looking back, there's an endless plain
 Where flowers fall like streaming tears.
 It's easy to grow old; Where is
 the messenger to bring some news?
 To tell who the Golden Phoenix charms?
 Waking from a deep, restless dream
 What remains are blooms on the stream.