The waterside city stands as in a picture scroll.
The sky is lucid above the mountain shrouded in evening gloom,
While the waters on either hand shine like mirrors;
Two painted bridges span them like rainbows dropped from the sky.
The smoke from the cottages curls up around the citron trees,
And the hues of late autumn are on the green paulownias.
Who ever dreamed of my coming hither to the North Tower
To brood over the memory of Prince Hsieh, while the wind blows in my face?