The melancholy of worldly things
Can’t match the hills and mountains,
Where green pines hide the sun
And jasper streams flow long.

Mountain clouds are my tent,
The night moon is my fishing hook;
I sleep beneath wisteria,
My pillow a block of stone.

I don’t look up to the Son of Heaven;
Why should I envy lords and kings?
Life and death with no worries;
What sadness could there be?