I heard it snowed in Mount Tai today. Snow falls on Mount Tai, and the world is in my arms

Mount Tai wakes up in the snow in the early morning. The archway of Tianjie is covered with a thin layer of snow, like a slowly unfolding ink-splashed landscape painting. The edges of the Eighteen Bends stone steps were smoothed by the new snow, making them look like a silver dragon hovering in the clouds, looming in the gauze curtain woven by rime. The pine needles were carrying snow that looked like jade chips, which would fall off if one was not careful, startling the crows that were roosting in the forest of steles. When their wings flew over the stone carving of "The Most Dominant of the Five Mountains", the vermilion marks became even brighter in the light of the snow. The eaves of Nantianmen are hung with icy spikes that are over a foot long, as if they were the edge of a sword condensed from the bright moon during the Qin Dynasty. The sea of ​​clouds rolls under your feet, occasionally revealing the city of Tai'an just after the snow. The chessboard-like streets and snow-covered fields form a watercolor painting. The frost flowers on the top rocks glow slightly blue in the sunlight, reminding people of the lines written by Li Bai when he was drunk: "A long whistle from Tianmen, a clear wind comes from thousands of miles away", but now with a different and quiet rhyme. The broken stele at the site of Fengshan Terrace is half-buried in the snow; the sound of the jade chimes used by Emperor Wu of Han to offer sacrifices to heaven still seems to linger between the frozen flagpoles. The porter's red scarf is particularly eye-catching in the silver-white world, and the icicles hanging at both ends of the carrying pole sway slightly with his steps. They followed in their ancestors' footsteps up the mountain. Under the snow lay the ancient paths walked by generations of pilgrims. The unfaded chisel marks on the bluestone slabs and the fresh footprints overlapped to form a rubbing of time and space. The sweet aroma of roasted sweet potatoes wafts from the Zhongtianmen teahouse, intertwined with the clear sound of copper bells on the eaves of the Taoist temple, creating a warm feeling in the minus ten degree air. As dusk deepened, the snow on Jade Emperor Peak took on a light rouge color. The Wangren Pine tree transformed into an old man wearing a crane cloak, and its twisted branches supported the setting sun. On the way down the mountain, I met a Korean tourist with a camera. He was adjusting the focus on the frozen stream. The spring water surging under the ice in the lens was like the pulse of Mount Tai that had been beating for thousands of years. The snow began to fall again, falling on the two words "Sure enough" written by Emperor Qianlong. The beauty of heaven and earth does not need any further footnotes. This snow will eventually melt in the folds of the 72 peaks, but the moonlight on the top of Mount Tai remembers that the cliff carvings that become clearer in the snow, and the eaves and brackets that are re-outlined by frost, are all telling the same truth: the most magnificent landscapes always need the gentlest snow to soften them.