Classic Poem

I shake my robe — and mists disperse, leaving clear autumn sky:
from the topmost peak, I can see ten thousand miles
into empty distance.
This magic mountain must have flown toward the ocean:
how could the Hanging Gardens have grown here in the sky?
The Bright Spirit beams down its rays
to Yellow Gold Hall;
the Southern Dipper hangs high above
the Palace of the Red Emperor.
Carefully count the peaks: there are thirty-six;
every morning, they seem to clap their hands for joy
like the giant tortoise of paradise.