On the First of the Sixth Month, Roaming at Anhwa Temple, I Climbed from the Simbang Gate to the Hwanbyeok Pavilion and, Moved to Sadness, Lodged That Night in the Abbot's Room of Seon Elder Dang and Wrote a Hundred and Forty Characters六月一日。遊安和寺。自尋芳門登環碧亭。悵然有感。夜宿幢禪老方丈。書一百四十字。
玉欄誰更葺。芝蓋不重遊。環碧雲空鎖。尋芳草正稠。畫簷欹縟翮。苔石臥蒼虬。園鹿遊臺榭。巖僧記冕旒。廢興餘老木。今古獨寒流。往事憑誰問。幽懷只自愁。好花嬌笑靨。啼鳥送歌喉。舊代仙蹤遠。中興王氣浮。烟花愜淸賞。山水入窮搜。吊往孤亭寂。尋眞一室幽。白蓮邀靖節。黃蘗引裴休。桂魄三更晝。松風六月秋。鍾聲敲樹外。人語落巖頭。萬景吟難盡。他年入夢不。
Who will mend the jade balustrade again? The fungus-figured parasol roams here no more. Clouds have shut the Hwanbyeok Pavilion to no purpose, and the grass at the Simbang Gate is thick and rank. On the painted eaves the splendid wings lean, and on the mossy stones a green hornless dragon lies. Deer of the garden roam the terrace and the pavilion, and the monk of the rocks remembers the royal crown. Through rise and ruin the old trees remain, and through past and present the cold water alone flows. Of whom shall I ask about bygone things? In my hidden heart I am simply sorrowful by myself. The fine flowers are dimples of a lovely smile, and the crying birds send out a singing throat. The traces of the immortals of the old age are far, and the royal aura of the restoration floats here. Mist-wrapped flowers content a clear appreciation, and hills and waters answer a search pressed to the end. Mourning bygone things, the lonely pavilion is still; seeking the true, the single-bay room is deep and quiet. The white lotus welcomes Tao Jingjie (陶靖節), and Huangbo (黃蘖) leads Pei Xiu (裴休). In the moonlight the third watch is like noon, and in the pine wind the sixth month is like autumn. The bell's sound beats from beyond the trees, and human speech falls on the head of the rock. Ten thousand scenes are hard to exhaust in chanting — will they enter my dreams in days to come?
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毅廟遊賞處。
This is where Uijong roamed and took his pleasure.
有老僧自言。親見前朝來遊。
There was an old monk who said of himself that he had seen with his own eyes the former court come here to roam.