Settling at Aenggye, I Set Down by Chance the Ease of My Thatched Hall — and Write Besides of the Pleasure of Two Houses Visiting Back and Forth, to Give to My Western Neighbor Yang, Collator of the Pavilion卜居鸎溪。偶書草堂閑適。兼敍兩家來往之樂。贈西隣梁閣校。

I have come to Aenggye and chosen a site for a house, and Gongnyeong stands right across from my hall. Old junipers grow thick in the southern lane, and green pines cover the little wall. Mulberry and hemp are plentiful in the field plots, and my fence is like that of a mountain village. My window faces the pagoda of a temple, and my loft looks out on the door of a wineshop. Beside the peach tree I plant green bamboo, and I cut away the brambles to guard the fragrant sweet flag. Little by little I am becoming Lu Yu (陸羽), mad for tea, and Fan Chi (樊遲), who gladly learned to till the fields. Deep in drink I let the years go by, and with an open heart I grow old between heaven and earth. On the crumbled wall the old moss clings, and in the empty yard the self-sown grass grows rank. Amid a thousand volumes of books in disorder one body with a bulging belly sits high. In my box there is fine writing small as a fly's head, and on the pole there hangs a pair of ox-nose work breeches. I am grateful that your heart is large and open, and that you let me come up and down to you every day. Half taking off my black official cap, I tilt the white-jade wine jar again and again. Our talk is done and the bright moon sinks; the baduk is over and the green hills go dark. When I water the herbs we always share one well, and transplanting melons we mean to share one plot. In the field of letters we boast a hand that grips tigers, and with a tune on the geomungo we tease the departing kun bird. Beyond the blind a breeze stirs lightly, and before the eaves the sun is at its warmest. The oriole in the willow tunes its singing tongue, and the snow-white butterfly pines for the flowers and frets. What should make you shrink from coming and going? Here, at least, one may escape the clamor of the world.