Classic Poem

You've lived there long, away from the trappings of office,
your mind at peace, cut off from the world.
In jars: herbs, handed down by your teacher.
In bags: elixir, refined by your own hand.
You whistle out loud beyond the thousand peaks,
walk quietly along a hundred streams.
You resent even the intrusions of woodcutters and shepherds,
so now you want to move still deeper into the clouds.