At the Mountain-Lodge of the Buddhist Priest Ye Waiting in Vain for My Friend Ting

Now that the sun has set beyond the western range,
Valley after valley is shadowy and dim . . .
And now through pine-trees come the moon and the chill of evening,
And my ears feel pure with the sound of wind and water. . .
Nearly all the woodsmen have reached home,
Birds have settled on their perches in the quiet mist . . .
And still — because you promised — I am waiting for you, waiting,
Playing my lonely lute under a wayside vine.