I doubt this haze will last once the sun rises. Not quite fog, it has hovered for hours and even now blurs the fading stars. The moon borrows from it a halo, as the haze itself borrows from the town's distant lights a pearly glow. It has also brought a strange phenomenon I've seen but a few times; Looming between the sky and the dark trees is a darkness slightly deeper than the sky and slightly paler than the trees. When I stare at this shade, it takes on the shapes of trees twice the height of the second growth woods now here, as though I were seeing the ghost of the ancient forest which once stood on this ridge. Maybe it intends to return. I wouldn't mind.
by Po Chu-i
Unrewarded, my will to serve the state; At my closed door Autumn grasses grow. What could I do to ease a rustic heart? I planted bamboos, more than a hundred shoots. When I see their beauty, as they grow by the stream-side, I feel again as though I lived in the hills, And many a time on public holidays Round their railing I walk till night comes. Do not say that their roots are still week, Do not say that their shade is still small; Already I feel that both in garden and house Day by day a fresher air moves. But most I love, lying near the window-side, To hear in their branches the sound of the autumn-wind.