I had so long been
troubled by official hat and robe That I am glad to be an exile here in this wild southland. I am a neighbour now
of planters and reapers. I am a guest of the mountains and woods. I plough in the morning, turning dewy grasses,
And at evening tie my fisher-boat, breaking the quiet stream. Back and forth I go, scarcely meeting anyone,
And sing a long poem and gaze at the blue sky.