As the years go by， give me but peace，

　　Freedom from ten thousand matters.

　　I ask myself and always answer：

　　What can be better than coming home？

　　A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash，

　　And my lute¹ is bright with the mountain moon.

　　You ask me about good and evil² fortune？……

　　Hark， on the lake there's a fisherman singing！