On the mountain top one thatched hut,
Thirty li from roads.
Knock on the door: no disciple to answer;
Look in: only a table for tea.

The firewood cart is covered;
Have you gone fishing in the autumn stream?
I look among the pools, but miss you;
I try but fail to pay you my respects.

Grass shines in the fresh rain;
Pines murmur at evening windows.
Here at this moment a harmony,
Profound and unrivaled.

The self completely cleansed,
The heart, the ear.
Although there is no guest or host as such,
I’m able to intuit your pure thought.
Purpose fulfilled, I head back down the mountain.
No need now to wait for you.