North and South of our hut
spread the Spring waters,
And only flocks of gulls
daily visit us;
For guests our path is yet
unswept of petals,
To you our wattle gate
the first time opens:
Dishes so far from town
lack subtle flavours,
And wine is but the rough
a poor home offers;
If you agree, I’ll call
my ancient neighbour
Across the fence, to come
help us finish it!