鐔津文集 18.129

18.129

Closing my gate, who still thinks of our kind? / Old and fearing the spring cold, I wrap myself in a monk's felt robe. / Indolent and slow, all along I have merely laughed at myself; / in chanting and responding, I am now even more awed by your elevation. / Never having widespread renown for the Way, / I tire of wearing out my liver and spleen with bitter toil. / Fine verses suddenly arrive to urge on my rustic lines, / as if forcing an ordinary fruit upon an immortal peach.