Classic Poem

There's no occasion for knocking at an out-of-the-way door;
What good fortune brings an old friend to tap at my thatch gate?
Set amidst hills, the house is half hidden in a mantle of moss;
Felled to serve as a bridge, the gnarled tree still puts forth new leaves.
Young bamboo shoots sprout in the gentle noonday breeze;
Drifting petals fall into my tea-stove by mistake.
Our feelings calm as water, the two of us sit relaxed
Facing each other in the woods,
Regaled with the birdsong of Spring.