The poem
My friend is lodging high in the Eastern Range, Dearly loving the beauty of valleys and hills. At green Spring he lies in the empty woods, And is still asleep when the sun shines on igh. A pine-tree wind dusts his sleeves and coat; A peebly stream cleans his heart and ears. I envy you, who far from strife and talk Are high-propped on a pillow of blue cloud.