Yüan Hung-tao

Height after height of strange mountain scenes,

new words, new ideas in our conversation.

Wild pines blow in the wind like hanging manes;

the ancient rocks are covered with mottled scales.

I enter the temple, seek the dream-realm of the monks,

thumb through sutras, feel the dustiness     of this traveler's life.

You, the Zen master, I, a lover of wine—