Chang Jian

In the pure morning, near the old temple,

Where early sunlight points the tree-tops,

My path has wound, through a sheltered hollow

Of boughs and flowers, to a Buddhist retreat.

Here birds are alive with mountain-light,

And the mind of man touches peace in a pool,

And a thousand sounds are quieted

By the breathing of a temple-bell.

Here, beside a clear deep lake,

You live accompanied by clouds;

Or soft through the pine the moon arrives

To be your own pure-hearted friend.

You rest under thatch in the shadow of your flowers,

Your dewy herbs flourish in their bed of moss.

Let me leave the world. Let me alight, like you,

On your western mountain with phoenixes and cranes.