Rough were the mountain-stones, and the path very narrow; And when I reached the temple, bats were in the dusk. I climbed to the hall, sat on the steps, and drank the rain- washed air Among the round gardenia-pods and huge bananaleaves. On the old wall, said the priest, were Buddhas finely painted, And he brought a light and showed me, and I called them wonderful He spread the bed, dusted the mats, and made my supper ready, And, though the food was coarse, it satisfied my hunger. At midnight, while I lay there not hearing even an insect, The mountain moon with her pure light entered my door.... At dawn I left the mountain and, alone, lost my way: In and out, up and down, while a heavy mist Made brook and mountain green and purple, brightening everything. I am passing sometimes pines and oaks, which ten men could not girdle, I am treading pebbles barefoot in swift-running water -- Its ripples purify my ear, while a soft wind blows my garments.... These are the things which, in themselves, make life happy. Why should we be hemmed about and hampered with people? O chosen pupils, far behind me in my own country, What if I spent my old age here and never went back home?