Leaning on my staff, I summon the recluse,
Since ancient times this wild road has lain here
The cave in the crags is bare of criss-cross beams,
But among these hills is the sound of a singing lute
White snow still lies on the mountain's shadowy side,
Red petals flare on the sunny side of the woods
A stony spring washes over precious jade,
Delicate fishes are swimming in its depths
No need of strings, or bamboo instruments,
When mountains and waters give forth their pure notes
Why bother now to whistle or to sing,
When bushy trees are humming mournfully?
Autumn chrysanthemums are food enough for me,
The lonely orchid I wear as a buttonhole
My feet are tired from all this pacing about,
I would like to throw my hat-pins clean away.