A Visit To the West Village
Don't laugh at turbid winter-wine brewed by farmers,
In an abundant year there is plenty of food for visitors.
The pathway along hills seems to run into a dead end,
There pops up a village amidst the willows and flowers.
Dressed in ancient simplicity, playing the flute and drum,
The farmers are rehearsing for the Spring Ritual Prayers.
I wish I could henceforward visit the village anytime,
Walking with a stick and calling on the austere villagers.
(Tran.)
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