by layman k
Spring Day III
by Yuan Mei
A hermit’s gate is made of the stuff of brooms,
but sweep as it may, the clouds won’t stay away.
So up through the clouds, for sun I came,
with wine, to this high tower.
At evening, the sun declined
to come one down the mountain with me.
“Tomorrow,” I asked,
“you coming, or not?”
(from The Shambhala Anthology of Chinese Poetry translated by J.P Seaton)