Roaming to Suryangsa (壽量寺) with the Reverend Hyeon: A Record of What I Saw與玄上人遊壽量寺。記所見。
殘鄕無勝境。古院有名樓。暇日乘淸興。輕裝占美遊。仰攀高蔦蔓。俯亂淺溪流。太守行無喝。樵童不避騶。自然同野老。何更視邦侯。坰馬晴方牧。巢禽暮自投。多生應記覽。到處似經由。入谷愁榛暗。逢村得路脩。驚鼯竄深樾。瘦鴨立澄溝。訪到客情款。出迎僧語柔。談空初詰曲。話舊更綢繆。躑躅登危構。寬閑瀉滯憂。一軒窮遠眺。萬像赴冥搜。日落烟光靜。虹明霽景浮。林喧無賴鳥。郊臥大平牛。夕露濃於雨。寒篁颯欲秋。霧平鋪白水。草遠展靑油。壞塔苔痕澁。虛窓樹影稠。屋雞翹繡頸。山雉靡莎鞦。井近宵猶汲。碁殘晚未收。月欞思慢笛。風檻戀重裘。初爲嘗茶至。還因有酒留。嫌喧屛騎從。諱獨嘯朋儔。小塢鸎捎蝶。深園雀啅彪。巖泉同鹿飮。林菓任猿偸。大瓠垂欹甕。圓梨落逬毬。芋畦深伏卵。菌木忽懸疣。物化觀無限。詩篇拾未周。怳如來別界。曠若釋幽囚。憶昨趨軒陛。連晨侍冕旒。斥來心惘惘。愁坐鬢颼颼。賴有優哉地。方驅欝矣愁。命奇雖此謫。天貺亦云優。野菜何妨煑。山醪未害篘。江山皆可意。薪水足充求。半世違玆樂。浮名是我讎。苦遭塵眯目。坐受雪侵頭。祿薄何須慕。官微尙可休。終身知有所。築室早營謀。但恐歸來晚。寧勞更相攸。
In this worn-out countryside there is no surpassing scenery, but in an old temple there is a famed pavilion. On an idle day, riding a clear delight, lightly dressed, I took possession of a goodly outing. Looking up, I take hold of the high ivy vines; stooping, I cross the shallow streams this way and that. Though the prefect passes by, there is no crier going before, and even the boy gathering firewood does not get out of the groom's way. Of myself I am like a country old man; how should anyone see me as a district magistrate again? The horses of the field, the day having cleared, are just then let out to graze, and the birds of the nest, evening coming on, roost of themselves. It is as though I remembered many lives: every place I come to seems a place I have passed before. Entering the valley, the thickets are dark and I am full of care; meeting a village, the road runs on and on. The startled flying squirrel runs off into the deep shade, and a lean duck stands in the clear ditch. I go to visit, and the wayfarer's heart is warm; the monk comes out to meet me, and his speech is gentle. Talking of emptiness (空), at first we weigh the turns of the argument; speaking of old things, we grow the more entangled and the more warm. Hesitating, hesitating, I climb the high loft, and there, broad and at leisure, the dammed-up care pours out. From a single hall I use up the far prospect, and all shapes come running at my secret groping. The sun goes down, and the color of the mist is still; the rainbow is bright, and the cleared prospect rises up. What makes a noise in the woods is a bird to no purpose, and what lies in the field is an ox at great peace. The evening dew is thicker than rain, and the cold bamboo grove is bleak, and autumn would come. The mist is level and has spread out white water, and the grass has unrolled green oil far off. On the crumbled pagoda the moss stains are rough, and at the empty window the shadows of the trees are dense. The house fowl lifts up its embroidered neck, and the mountain pheasant brushes the turf and drags its tail. The well being near, we draw water even at night; the baduk draws to its end, yet till dark we cannot put it away. At the moonlit lattice I think of a slow flute's sound, and at the windy railing I long for a thick fur robe. At first I came to taste the tea, but there was wine after all, and I stayed on. Hating the noise, I sent away the mounted attendants; shrinking from being alone, I called a friend. On the small hillock an oriole snatches a butterfly, and in the deep garden a sparrow seems to peck at a striped tiger. At the rock spring I drink together with the deer, and the fruit of the woods I leave for the monkeys to steal. The great gourd hangs down like a tilted crock, and the round pear falls like a bouncing ball. In the taro ridges they hold their bulbs deep, and on the mushroom-clad tree a swelling has suddenly hung. There is no end to the seeing of the changes of things, and the gathering of them into poems cannot reach all around. I am in a rapture, as though I had come into another world, and as relieved as though a shut-up prisoner had been set free. I think of the days gone by, when I hurried to the palace steps and attended the royal crown every dawn. Driven out here, my mind is blank, and sitting in my care, the hair at my temples thins. Happily there is ground enough, and now at last the stifling care is driven off. My fate was thin, and I came here into banishment, yet what heaven has given might also be called enough. What harm is there in boiling the wild greens? And there is no harm in straining the mountain makgeolli. The rivers and hills are all to my mind, and firewood and water are plentiful for the seeking. For half a lifetime I went against this pleasure, and a floating name was my very enemy. Painfully the dust got into my eyes, and sitting still I suffered the snow to invade my head. My salary is thin — why should I yearn after it? My office is low — it would be well to give it up. Knowing that there is a place to end my days in, I plan early for the building of a house. I only fear that my returning may come late; why should I toil again at looking over a seat?