宏智禪師廣錄 8.135

8.135

I take up my bamboo staff, rising from stillness, and descend Yunju;
At the cold foothills, spring returns as I seek out a friend.
Mist dyes the shoots of grass; the three paths are dark;
Snow melts on the barley shoots; a single hoe is damp.
Wishing to seek true words to wash away worldly thoughts,
Why should I fear the sharp wind raising goosebumps on the skin?
Not meeting the poet gentleman, I return in dismay;
Lean and austere, I face the stone calamus at times.