Classic Poem

Mists are rolling
Over the grey mountains,
Over the quiet waters
And marshy shores, —
Rolling up into valleys
Where pagodas rise, —
Rolling over slopes
Along whose crests
Monasteries dream.
Wild geese soar
Above the marshes
In downward flight —
In flight from unknown shore
To unknown shore.
Over all
Mists are swaying.

The shadowy bridge
And wandering roadway,
The dark gnarled tree by the road
And the pale tree afar,
Are touched with doubtful mists
Or emergent from lifting mists, —
Trembling in mist; born of mist; shadows. . . .

O mountains, shores, and streams!
Beautiful transient illusion!
Mortal world, dream world,
Vanishing into mist, into mist only!