On this ground I may look for rest;
Open the door— enough for bucolic feelings.
The window brightens—at least the rain is spent;
The sun goes down—again the wind is fresh.
Gray-green moss winds round the roots of felled trees.
Deep-blue haze quickens on the water's face.
Trifles and oddities—in these my heart finds its own joys.
Summer heat—the moon—listening to the cicadas call.