West of the Several-Thousand Mile Bridge is my thatched hut. The
Hundred Flower Stream can be any hermit's delgiht. Every green bam-
boo caressed by the wind is like a coy maiden; Each blossom of the red
lotus bathed by the rain offers a supply of perfume.
No letters have come from friends with ample salaries. Ghastly pale are
the faces of my hungry children. A mad man should be lgiht-hearted
before dying in the gutter; He should even laugh at his being the older
the madder.