The Moon over the West River-A Summer Night on My Way Home from the Yellow Sand Ridge
- Poetry of Xin Qiji

Startled by magpies leaving the branch in moonlight;

I hear cicadas shrill in the breeze at midnight.

The ricefields'sweet smell promises a harvest great,

I listen to the frogs'croak when the night grows late.

Beyond the clouds seven or eight stars twinkle;

Before the hills two or three raindrops sprinkle.

There is an inn beside the Village Temple.Look!

The winding path leads to the hut beside the brook.