Thoughtful elation has no end: Onward I bear it to whatever come. And my boat and I, before the evening breeze Passing flowers, entering the lake, Turn at nightfall toward the western valley, Where I watch the south star over the mountain And a mist that rises, hovering soft, And the low moon slanting through the trees; And I choose to put away from me every worldly matter And only to be an old man with a fishing-pole.