I built my hut on the realm of men
yet I hear no rumble of horse and carriage.

Pray, sir, how can this be true?
When the mind's far away, your land too is remote.

I pick chrysanthemums by my eastern hedge;
far off I see the southern hills.

How fine the sunset through mountain mists,
and the soaring birds come home together.

There is some real meaning in all of this,
though when I try to grasp it I forget the words.