Trees growing — right in front of my window ;
The trees are high and the leaves grow thick.
Sad alas! the distant mountain view
Obscured by this, dimly shows between.
One morning I took knife and axe ;
With my own hand I lopped the branches off.
Ten thousand leaves fall about my head ;
A thousand hills came before my eyes.
Suddenly, as when clouds or mists break
And straight through, the blue sky appears.
Again, like the face of a friend one has loved
Seen at last after an age of parting.
First there came a gentle wind blowing ;
One by one the birds flew back to the tree.
To ease my mind I gazed to the South East;
As my eyes wandered, my thoughts went far away.
Of men there is none that has not some preference :
Of things there is none but mixes good with ill.
It was not that I did not love the tender branches;
But better still, — to see the green hills!