After Missing the Recluse on the Western Mountain To your hermitage here on the top of the mountainI have climbed, without stopping, these ten miles.I have knocked at your door, and no one answered;I have peeped into your room,At your seat beside the table. Perhaps you are out gathering herbs,Or fishing, more likely, in some autumn pool.Sorry though I am to be missing you,You have become my meditation. The beauty of the grasses, fresh with rain,And close beside the window the music of pines,I take into my being all that I see and hear,Soothing my senses, quieting my heart;And though there be neither host nor guest,Have I not had a visit complete? The afternoon fades, I make my wayBack down the mountain.Why should I wait for you any longer?
After Missing the Recluse on the Western Mountain
To your hermitage here on the top of the mountainI have climbed, without stopping, these ten miles.I have knocked at your door, and no one answered;I have peeped into your room,At your seat beside the table.
Perhaps you are out gathering herbs,Or fishing, more likely, in some autumn pool.Sorry though I am to be missing you,You have become my meditation.
The beauty of the grasses, fresh with rain,And close beside the window the music of pines,I take into my being all that I see and hear,Soothing my senses, quieting my heart;And though there be neither host nor guest,Have I not had a visit complete?
The afternoon fades, I make my wayBack down the mountain.Why should I wait for you any longer?
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