The birds chirp—I can’t really bear my feelings—

At such hours I prostrate in my thatched shelter,

Two yards on two yards, having no vigour to rise.

Cherries and peaches red with lustre and shine;

Maples and ash-trees are shaggy in their crowns.

The setting sun merges with grey slopes of cliffs;

Thin clouds bathe clean in the mountain springs.

After a long day of toil in the mulberry field I feel

The full moon’s sneaking up to take its central part

In the red-and-black sky. . . After so many years

Of self-extension and extreme alchemical efforts,

Who has found the way of getting out of dull routine

And country pains and driving up the western slope

Of the Werewolf Mountain scale its peak, on which