yellow cranes cannot carry them across, and the monkeys grow weary of such climbing.
How the road curls in the pass of Green Mud!
With nine turns in a hundred steps it twists up the hills.
Clutching at Orion, passing the Well Star, I look up and gasp. Then beating my breast sit and groan aloud.
I fear I shall never return from my westward wandering; the way is steep and the rocks cannot be climbed.
Sometimes the voice of a bird calls among the ancient trees—a male calling to its wife, up and down through the woods. Sometimes a nightingale sings to the moon, weary of empty hills.
It would be easier to climb to Heaven than to walk the Szechwan Road; and those who hear the tale of it turn pale with fear.
Between the hill-tops and the sky there is not a cubit's space. Withered pine-trees hang leaning over precipitous walls.
Flying waterfalls and rolling torrents mingle their din. Beating the cliffs and circling the rocks, they thunder in a thousand valleys.
Alas! O traveller, why did you come to so fearful a place? The Sword Gate is high and jagged. If one man stood in the Pass, he could hold it against ten thousand.
The guardian of the Pass leaps like a wolf on all who are not his kinsmen.
In the daytime one hides from ravening tigers and in the night from long serpents, that sharpen their fangs and lick blood, slaying men like grass.
They say the Embroidered City is a pleasant place, but I had rather be safe at home.
For it would be easier to climb to Heaven than to walk the Szechwan Road.
I turn my body and gaze longingly towards the West.
[When Li Po came to the capital and showed this poem to Ho Chih-ch'ang, Chih-ch'ang raised his eyebrows and
