" I divined and chose a distant place to dwell T'ien-t'ai; what more is there to say?
Monkeys cry where valley mists are cold, My grass gate blends with the color of the crags, I pick leaves to thatch a hut among the pines, Scoop out a pond and lead a runnel from the spring.
By now I am used to doing without the world, Picking ferns, I pass the years that are left. The trail to Cold Mountain is faint the banks of Cold Stream are a jungle
birds constantly chatter away I hear no sound of people gusts of wind lash my face
flurries of snow bury my body day after day, no sun year after year no spring. "