As winter's end draws near, the scene is mild, the old hills await your tread; hear my account.
Then go alone into the mountains, rest at the temple, share a monk's simple meal.
Northward, cross the Ba River; the bright moon casts its glow upon the walls.
Alas, the rippling Wang waters rise and fall with the moon; distant fires on cold hills blur in mist.
Listen: beyond the woods, a dog barks fierce as a leopard's roar.
And from some village, who pounds the night mortar?
Sparse temple bells answer each other; sitting alone at this hour, I think much of days gone by.
Ah, I remember being with you.
By clear streams and narrow paths, jade-like waters tinkle.
Hand in hand, we composed fine verses.
Coming and going amidst vine-wreathed moons and pine-swept winds.
We only waited for mid-spring days, when the green hills could be gazed upon, and flowers, trees, and hanging vines grew thick.
We saw minnows break the water's surface, egrets dot the stream, and dew still fresh upon the verdant bank.
Pheasants took flight at dawn, calling to mates in the wheat fields.
Thinking our parting then was not far off, I hoped we'd not lose touch.
If you could but follow me, I dared believe it certain.
Yet heaven's intent is not for one so pure as you; such matters are not urgent.
Within this lies a profound delight; I pray you do not overlook it.
I cannot tell it all.
By chance, sending this letter with a load of bark, I am the mountain recluse, Wang Wei, Mojie.