As my boat sails into Xingze Lake
I am stunned by this glorious city!
A canal meanders by narrow courtyard doors.
Fires and cooking smoke crowd the water.
In these people I see strange customs
and the dialect here is obscure.
In late autumn, fields are abundant.
Morning light. Noise wakes at the city wells.
Fish merchants float on the waves. 
Chickens and dogs. Villages on either bank.
I’m heading away from white clouds.
What will become of my solitary sail?

(He needed to travel for his work but he longed
 for Buddhist detachment, which, in his poetry
is always symbolized by white clouds—Czeslaw Milosz)