A rustic person $(like me)$ seldom spends a night in a $(mountain)$ home.
I wake and watch the dawn come to $(these)$ hills:
On the 0 wall the clouds still hover above the peaks;
$(And)$ I open the window to set free the birds in the lake.
Who is this man sitting alone under the tall pine?—
To my repeated greetings he is slow in response.
Mr. Yu lets loose a hearty laugh and says,
"$(It is)$ $(my)$ painting $(that)$ deceives you so."