I have sailed the River of Yellow Flowers,
Borne by the channel of a green stream,
Rounding ten thousand turns through the mountains
On a journey of less than thirty miles.
Rapids hum over heaped rocks;
But where light grows dim in the thick pines,
The surface of an inlet sways with nut-horns
And weeds are lush along the banks.
Down in my heart I have always been as pure
As this limpid water is.
Oh, to remain on a broad flat rock
And to cast a fishing-line forever!
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