My house is at the foot of the green cliff,
My garden a jumble of weeds I no longer bother to mow.
New vines dangle in twisted strands
Over old rocks rising steep and high.
Monkeys make off with the mountain fruits,
The white heron crams his bill with fish from the pond,
While I, with a book or two of the immortals,
Read under trees--mumble, mumble.

--Han Shan (trans. Burton Watson)