Getting old, I retire to this little mountain district,
yet the actions of other people still influence my heart.
This cloud-hidden temple where I am lodging
is perched up really high—
and still I hear a neighbor's pestle
pounding in moonlight.

Beside the lamp, I make myself
read through a sacred text;
wind blows through the flimsy blinds,
the moon glows through the window.
I sit up late into the night—
who keeps me company?
A few branches of flowering plum
in a vase of bronze.

At leisure I walk the hidden paths,
no thought of seeking spring,
when suddenly I see some orchids,
purple sprouts all fresh.
Luckily, it is deep within the woods,
the entire day can pass
without their fragrance pulling in
some other passer-by.

In the mountains, snow piles high,
right to the tips of the eaves;
I sit alone by the shaded lamp late into the night.
If the heart of the plum blossom
were not iron-strong,
how could it ever go on living in such awful cold?