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.