SEEKING FOR THE HERMIT OF THE WEST HILL; NOT MEETING HIM
BY CH'IU WEI
On the Nothing-Beyond Peak, a hut of red grass.
I mount straight up for thirty _li_.
I knock at the closed door—no serving boy.
I look into the room. There is only the low table, and the stand for the elbows.
If you are not sitting on the cloth seat of your rough wood cart,
Then you must be fishing in the Autumn water.