With verdant heads the crowd of cliffs are brushing the sky.
So aimless wandering here, one feels not the years go by.
I burst through the Veiling Clouds in search of the Ancient Way,
Or lean me against a tree while hearing the torrent's play.
The warm Spring opens the flowers: the Fairy Ox lies down.
The White Crane sleeps above on the lofty pine tree's crown.
The River gleams with Twilight; as now our speech is done
Alone I cross the chilly mist descending with the sun.