I walk to East Stream to gaze at the water
and a boat late in shoving off as I sit by a lonely isle.
Wild ducks calmly sleeping by the shoreline.
No branch looks ugly when the old tree blooms
Short low rushes as if cut with scissors.
Sand so flat and pebbles smooth and clean as if sieved.
I don't dislike this place and yet I cannot stay.
In thin twilight I return by wagon, my horse exhausted.