As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Many ways, really: e.g. Go for a walk or otherwise move. Forget it exists. When the WiFi goes down, take it as a sign from the universe. Juggle. Do something productive.
Grown about by Fragrant bushes, Sunken in a winding valley, Where the clear winds blow And the shadows come and go, And the cattle stand and low And the sheep bells and the linnets Sing and tinkle musically. Between the past and the future, Those two black infinities Between which our brief life Flashes a moment and goes out.
Above the blossoms sing the orioles: Kuan kuan, their clear notes. The girl with a face like jade Strums to them on her lute. Never does she tire of playing -- Youth is the time for tender thoughts. When the flowers scatter and the birds fly off Her tears will fall in the spring wind.
Translated of Burton Watson in: Cold Mountain: 100 poems by the T’ang poet Han-Shan, New York: Columbia University Press, p. 22
Tiger Riding for Beginners 