Passing One Night in an Old Woman’s Hut at the Foot of Mount Five Pines

I lodge under the five pine trees,
Lonely, I feel not quite at ease.
Peasants work hard in autumn old;
Husking rice at night, the maid’s cold.
Wild rice is offered on her knees;
The plate in moonlight seems to freeze.
I’m overwhelmed with gratitude.
Do I deserve the hard-earned food?