Did Chuang Chou dream
he was the butterfly,
Or the butterfly
that it was Chuang Chou?
In one body’s
metamorphoses,
All is present,
infinite virtue!
You surely know
Fairyland’s oceans
Were made again
a limpid brooklet,
Down at Green Gate
the melon gardener
Once used to be
Marquis of Tung-ling?
Wealth and honour
were always like this:
You strive and strive,
but what do you seek?