#four classics

Her whiteness? Spring plum-blossom glimpsed through snow. Her purity? Autumn orchids coated with frost. Her tranquillity? A pine in a lonely valley. Her beauty? Sunset mirrored in a limpid pool. Her grace? A dragon breasting  winding stream. Her spirit? Moonlight on a frosty river.

Shiyin, hearing this clearly, wondered what it meant. Before he could ask, the Taoist told the monk: 'This is where our paths divide. Each must go about his own business. Three aeons from now I shall wait for you at Mount Beimang, and together we can go to the Land of Illusion to have this affair expunged from the register.' 'Very good,' said the monk. Then both vanished without a trace.