To your hermitage tore on the top of the mountain, Ihave travelled straight for thirty li. I have knocked at your door, and na one answered; I have peeped into your room, at your seat beside the table.
Perhaps you are out riding in your certained chair, Or angling, more likely, in some autumn pond.
Sorry, as 1 am to be missing you, You have become my meditation, The beauty of your grasses, fresh with rain, And close beside your window the music of your pines.
I take into' my being all that I see and hear, Quieting my senses, quieting my And though there he neither host nor guest, Have I not reasoned a visit: complete?
After enough, I have gone down the mountain.
Why should I wait for yor any longer?
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.