Classic Poem

Startled awake, back from a dream
of those years:
fishermen's songs rise from the southern ford.
Painted folding screen of cloudy peaks,
pool bank of spring grass:
unlimited melting of the soul.

My old home must still be there:
paulownia trees shading the well,
willows concealing the gate.
This body at leisure grows old in vain,
in a solitary boat, listening to the rain,
lamplight flickering from the river village.