I regard this place as a refuge;
They call me the hermit sometimes.
Wine makes my poems graceful;
the zither brings me that special tingle.
I thread mountain valleys in search of medicinal roots;
I transplant flowers, I sit and enjoy the spring.
This will do until I’m old;
I’ve no wish for the dusty world.

Such’ŏ Sŭnum (1590-1668)