The reed-roof'd Village, still bepatch'd with snow
Smok'd in the sun-thaw.

The Sun-shine lies on the cottage-wall,
Ashining thro' the snow--

Behind the thin
Grey cloud that cover'd but not hid the sky
The round full moon look'd small.--

'Twas sweet to know it only possible--
Some wishes cross'd my mind & dimly cheer'd it--
And one or two poor melancholy Pleasures[;]
In these, the pale unwarming light of Hope
Silv'ring their flimsy wing flew silent by,
Moths in the Moonlight--

A long deep Lane
So overshadow'd, it might seem one bower--
The damp Clay banks were furr'd with mouldy moss.

On the broad mountain-top
The neighing wild-colt races with the wind
O'er fern & heath-flowers--

terrible and loud
As the strong Voice that from the Thunder-cloud
Speaks to the startled Midnight.

Li Bo put it in a poem, this West-of-the-Waters Abbey
Old trees and crooked cliffs, wind in the upper rooms
Between drunk and sober I drifted three days
While blossoms white and crimson opened in the misty rain.

Whirled ten years beyond all bounds,
Treating myself in the taverns, drinking my own health
In autumn hills and spring rain in the places where I idly sang
I lolled against the pillar of every monastery in Jiangnan.

Seeing myself:
a rootless grass dangling on the edge of a cliff.

Measuring my life:
an unmoored boat afloat at the mouth of a river.