硠

The river flowed with a sound, its banks broken for a thousand feet; the mountains were high, the moon small, the water low, the rocks exposed. How many days and months had passed since then, that the landscape was no longer recognizable? So I gathered my clothes and went up, treading on jagged rocks, pushing through tangled undergrowth, sitting on tiger-like boulders, climbing dragon-twisted trees, scaling the precarious nests of perching hawks, looking down upon the deep palace of the water god. My two companions could not follow. Suddenly I let out a long whistle, the grasses and trees shook, the mountains echoed, the wind rose, the water surged. I too became silently sad, gravely afraid, feeling it was too perilous to stay. So I turned back, boarded the boat, let it drift in the midstream, listening to wherever it stopped to rest. It was almost midnight, looking around, all was silent and still. Just then, a lone crane came from the east across the river. Its wings were like cart wheels, in black robes and white gowns, it gave a sudden long cry, and skimmed past my boat to the west. Shortly after, my companions left, and I went to sleep. I dreamed of a Taoist priest, in feathered robe, fluttering past the foot of Lingao, bowing to me and saying: 'Was the Red Cliff outing enjoyable?' I asked his name; he bowed his head and did not answer. 'Alas! Ah! I know now. Last night, the one who flew past me crying — wasn't that you?' The priest looked back and smiled; I awoke with a start. Opening the door and looking, I could not see where he had gone.

(May be seen in classical prose describing streams) The stream water makes a clattering sound, a clear, pleasant melody.