By mountains fair surrounded bright,
Where limpid streams wind through the sight.
This humble hut, though small it be,
Is hallowed by sweet witchery.

The moss may creep on steps of green,
The grass may peer through blinds of screen.
But here abide the wise and good,
And my poor room with splendor’s viewed.

I play plain lute with simple grace,
Or read the Golden Classics’ trace.
No flute’s lewd notes offend the ear,
No clerk’s dull documents appear.

Like Zhuge’s cot in Nanyang’s shade,
Or Yang’s hut where Luoyang played.
Confucius once did say with cheer:
"What humbleness has one to fear?"