In an autumn morning, poet stood at the south bank of a river and looked at the north one. He only saw it was cloudy and just half of the heaven appeared bright. Depressed clouds seemed to be rainy and difficult to be still.
His eyes moved to the thither mountain with plenty of trees and found its devious and enwinded landforms and the river was tortuous and meandered. Thus, a bewilderment rised from the bottom of his heart: Where was the outlet? Suddenly, the eyes catched lots of white sails loomedly driving towards here set off by the mountain forest.