rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


There was fog and there was mist and, later, a few stars emerged. No wind has stirred for hours now. The only sound has been the dripping of that slow-gathered moisture. Now even the soft beat of those drops has ceased, and gray morning light has begun to reveal the wet-darkened boles of the pines, the slick, black pavement, and the plush lawn which is beaded with dew. Unseen geese honk from somewhere in the dim sky, and an acorn woodpecker flicks from branch to branch of the mulberry tree, chattering brightly. Even his raucous calls cannot break the serene spell left by the night.

Sunday Verse

Lodging With the Old Man of the Stream

by Po Chu-I

Men's hearts love gold and jade;
Men's mouths covet wine and flesh.
Not so the old man of the stream;
He drinks from his gourd and asks nothing more.
South of the stream he cuts firewood and grass;
North of the stream he has built wall and roof.
Yearly he sows a single acre of land;
In spring he drives two yellow calves.
In these things he finds great repose;
Beyond these he has no wish or care.
By chance I met him walking by the water-side;
He took me home and lodged me in his thatched hut.
When I parted from him, to seek market and Court,
This old man asked my rank and pay.
Doubting my tale, he laughed loud and long;
"Privy Councillors do not sleep in barns."

translated by Arthur Waley

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