Red hills lie athwart us as a menace in the west, And fiery mountains glare terrible in the south. The body burns, the head aches and throbs: If a bird light here, its soul forthwith departs. Warm springs Pour from cloudy pools And hot smoke issues between the rocks. The sun and moon are perpetually obscured: The rain and dew never stay dry. There are red serpents a hundred feet long, And black snakes ten girths round. The sand-spitters shoot their poison at the sunbeams: The flying insects are ill with the shifting glare. The hungry monkeys dare not come down to eat: The morning birds dare not set out to fly. At the Ching river many die of poison: Crossing the Lu one is lucky if one is only ill. Our living feet walk on dead ground: Our high wills surmount the snares of Fate. The Spear-boat General[36] got but little honour: The Wave-subduer[37] met with scant reward. If our Prince still grudges the things that are easy to give,[38] Can he hope that his soldiers will give what is hardest to give?[39]