Over the steep， panting hills where

    I rest my heart.

    I like the simple homeliness¹

    of the bitch and her puppies.

    For how many centuries have

    such homely² sights been dear to us？

    The stern old nettle³ tree standing⁴ by the village gate

    gathers sweeping⁵ winds.

    That's not all.

    Beyond the village

    the well never dries.

    What a wonder it is，

    the well's not a dipperful lower.

    Children throw stones.

    On the other side of the hills

    pheasants flutter away， frightened for no reason.

    The snow's not gone yet.

    An old man， arms akimbo， runs into an eddy of wind