Visiting a Recluse on the Western Mountain without Meeting Him (Qiu Wei: Visiting a Recluse on the Western Mountain without Meeting Him)

A thatched hut atop the western hill, thirty li straight up the winding trail. I knock at the door—no servant boy replies; I peer through the window, only a desk and a low table. If he is not out in his firewood cart, he must be fishing by the autumn stream. I miss the chance to meet him, and my earnest admiration goes in vain. Fresh rain has left the grass a vivid green; through the window at dusk, the pines whisper in the breeze. Coming here, I am attuned to secluded grace—enough to cleanse the heart and ears. Though I lack the joy of host and guest, I fully grasp the pure and tranquil way. With my delight fulfilled, I descend the hill—why must I wait for that recluse?