English Rendering
O, mock not Lin Zong’s drenched and drooping hood!
The Rain God builds his fortress of despair.
Cold reeds lie still in veils of misty grey,
While gulls, surprised by autumn, skim the air.
The mountain’s strength seems spent, yet trails wind on;
The stream’s song fades—then swells in quiet grace.
With staff in hand, I’d roam where paths may lead,
As pleased as farmers beneath the rain’s embrace.
