An Old Fisherman

An old fisherman spent the night here, under the western cliff;
He dipped up water from the pure Hsiang and made a bamboo fire;
And then, at sunrise, he went his way through the cloven mist,
With only the creak of his paddle left, in the greenness of mountain and river.
. . . I turn and see the waves moving as from heaven,
And clouds above the cliffs coming idly, one by one.