The birds have vanished into the sky, and now the last cloud drains away. We sit together, the mountain and me, until only the mountain remains.

I bow in reverence to the white cloud.

Heaven is high, Earth Wide. Bitter between them flies my sorrow.

The living is a passing traveler; The dead, a man come home.

Since Life is but a Dream, Why toil to no avail?

To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring.

The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden; They hurt me. I grow older.