| Never counted among the dragons,|
Never entered the lists of greats.
Always the wine sage,
Everywhere the verse seer. . . .
|Read the full of Myself|
| I refine autumn mists in my alchemist stove|
And heat pure snow in my tea boiler.
Blossoms fall and waters swirl by my thatch hut,
Like the spring breeze in places long lost.
Call a woodcutter, tip the gourd and drink the dregs of cloud-pale grog.
Lean against a screen, I'm a saint drunk on dew on a pure bed of cold . . .
|Read the full of Enjoying Leisure|