FROM THE STRAW HUT AMONG THE SEVEN PEAKS

I From the high pavilion of the great rock, I look down at the green river. There is the sail of a returning boat. The birds are flying in pairs. The faint snuff colour of trees Closes the horizon. All about me Sharp peaks jag upward; But through my window, And beyond, Is the smooth, broad brightness Of the setting sun. II Clouds brush the rocky ledge. In the dark green shadow left by the sunken sun A jade fountain flies, And a little stream, Thin as the fine thread spun by sad women in prison chambers, Slides through the grasses And whirls suddenly upon itself Avoiding the sharp edges of the iris-leaves. Few people pass here. Only the hermits of the hills come in companies To gather the Imperial Fern.