On Failing to Meet the Recluse of West Peak
On the mountain top:
one thatched hut,thirty li
from nowhere.Knock on the door:
no servant to answer.Look in:
only a table for tea.The firewood cart
is covered;have you gone fishing
in the autumn stream?I looked among the pools,
but missed you;wanting to pay my respects,
they must go unexpressed.Grass shines
in the fresh rain;pines murmur
at evening windows.Here, at this moment,
a harmony deep and unrivaled;the self completely cleansed,
the heart, the ear.Although there is no
guest and host precisely,I'm able to intuit
your pure thought.Purpose fulfilled,
I head back down the mountain;what need now
to wait for you?--Ch'iu Wei (694-ca. 789)