Classic Poem

Toward evening on East Hill gazing,
Hesitant, uncertain, nothing to depend on,
On tree after tree, the colors of autumn,
On mountain after mountain, radiance of the setting sun.
The herdsman turns back, driving his calves,
The hunter's horse returns, bearing a bird.
I look at them; I do not know them
A long song and a yearning to “pluck the bracken”