This hand planted these peaches, these plums
They are not masterless_ Though the wall
is low, this is my home. just like Springs
wind, that cheat. Thief in the night
heís torn the blossomed branches down.
They know my studyís low and small
The Riverís orioles so dare invade,
Dripping nest mud, from beak to book and lute,
Driving bugs in the face of the Master.
March gone, now, Aprilís moon.
I age: how many more to meet?
Wonít let mind linger on the endless things beyond me.
Iíll try to finish this
One small cup.
Heart breaks, that River Spring should end.
Short staff in hand I stand
On flowered isle. Mad willow Hui?
Flown with that Wind away. Pickle
Blossoms of the peach run off
With flowing stream.
Scattered on the path, the willow flowers,
Fine White carpet spread. Dotting the stream, the lotus leaves,
Green coins, piled up.
Among bamboos the pheasant chicks are hidden.
On the sand the ducklings sleep
Beside their mother.
West of the hut, mulberry, the tender leaves to pluck.
In River Helds the slender grains embroidery again.
How longís life last? Springs turned
To Summer here. I wonít put down
These fragrant lees, sweet as honey