In the hills among trees,
Hut of thatch secluded and fine.
Faded green pines, bright green of bamboos
Fit for a painting;
Three or four homes near the misty village.
The soaring dream pursued falling flowers,
For the taste of the world was like a chewed candle.
This man need only bear his own whitened head,
Not follow the monkey of his mind.
I plant my melons,
Pick my tea,
Smelt cinnabar in the alchemist stove;
Read a chapter of the Way and Power,
Talk a while the chat of a fisherman.
At leisure enclosed in my groves and fences;
Lie down drunk beneath a bottle-gourd trellis,
Just pure and unmoved, just me!