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[
běi
qīng
luó
]
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North Among Green Vines

cán
yáng

西
rù
yān

máo
wū
fǎng
访
gū
sēng

luò
yè
rén
hé
zài

hán
yún
lù

céng

dú
qiāo
chū
yè
qìng

xián


zhī
téng

shì
jiè
wēi
chén


wú
níng
ài
yǔ
zēng

Where the sun has entered the western hills,

I look for a monk in his little straw hut;

But only the fallen leaves are at home,

And I turn through chilling levels of cloud

I hear a stone gong in the dusk,

I lean full-weight on my slender staff

How within this world, within this grain of dust,

Can there be any room for the passions of men?


[
[
běi
qīng
luó
]
]



North Among Green Vines

cán
yáng

西
rù
yān

máo
wū
fǎng
访
gū
sēng

luò
yè
rén
hé
zài

hán
yún
lù

céng

dú
qiāo
chū
yè
qìng

xián


zhī
téng

shì
jiè
wēi
chén


wú
níng
ài
yǔ
zēng

Where the sun has entered the western hills,

I look for a monk in his little straw hut;

But only the fallen leaves are at home,

And I turn through chilling levels of cloud

I hear a stone gong in the dusk,

I lean full-weight on my slender staff

How within this world, within this grain of dust,

Can there be any room for the passions of men?

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