Music

Han-Shan sits on a flat stone

In his garden and plays the flute,

Mimicking the birds singing among

The gourd vines or from the top

Of the blue pine tree.

Or he constructs a new trellis

For the rambling rose over his front

Gate or works at the great loom in his porch,

Weaving his own coverlets.

Sometimes, he paints drinking gourds

To hang at his cold spring.

His poems, delicate but strong,

Paper the ceiling above his bed,

So he can lie and read

His own masterpieces.

No man, he avers, can catch

Such fish in one basket.