The tolling of a distant bell floats faintly into the valley;
The fishermen and woodcutters gradually disappear.
Slowly the far mountains fade into darkness
Though the eastern plateau still glimmers with the
colour of spring grass.
Vines and water chestnuts bow down before the
tearing wind
And willow catkins dance lightly about.
Alone, I turn homeward toward beckoning white clouds.
In a mood deep with melancholy I close my
thatched door.