The humble door is shut, the path to the well has gone wild. Moss covers everything, and no footprints remain. In the garden I plant Shao Ping's melons; by the gate I plant the Master's willows. At dawn I call the boy and ask whether the mountain peaches have fallen, whether the magnolias have opened. I water the flowers by hand from a jar and clear away insects, silk, and spiders as the hour allows. With no cap and no shoes, I sit by the waterside window, seeking the cool wind. I burn fine incense and brew bitter tea. Suddenly I see a strange bird come and sing among the trees. When I am a little tired, I lie down. On a cool pillow I sleep, a fine sleep, clear and dreamless; even if I dream, I am still among the bamboo terrace and tea banks.