To the thatched hut on the topmost peak
A ten mile climb;
No boy answers the knock,
Nothing but a table or two visible within.
He's gathering firewood in his cart,
Gone fishing in some autumn pool.
All that rough trek, and no encounter:
I pause, head high in this void
The glint of grass in the fresh rain,
The sound of pines at the evening window;
The perfect stillness of this place
Of itself eases the mind.
No meeting, but the spirit of
Peace and purity speaks.
The mood passes; time to descend.
Why wait for the man?