A Recluse

A scholar lives on yonder hill,
His clothes are rarely whole to view,
Nine times a month he eats his fill.
Once in ten years his hat is new.
A wretched lot! — and yet the while
He ever wears a sunny smile.
Longing tb know what like was he,
At dawn my steps a path unclosed
Where dark firs left the passage free
And on the eaves the white clouds dozed.
But he, as spying my intent.
Seized his guitar and swept the strings;
Up flew a crane towards heaven bent,
And now a startled pheasant springs
Oh, let me rest with thee until
The winter winds again blow chill!