The stream at the foot of the mountain

Runs all day.

Even far back in the hills,

The grass is growing;

Spring is late there.

From all about comes the sound

Of dogs barking

And chickens cheeping.

They are stripping the mulberry-trees,

But who planted them?

What a wind!

We start in our boat

To gather the red water-chestnut.

Leaning on my staff,

I watch the sun sink

Behind the Western village.

I can see the apricot-trees

Set on their raised stone platform,

With an old fisherman standing

Beside them.

It makes me think

Of the Peach-Blossom Fountain,

Let us meet beside the spring

And drink wine together.

I will bring my table-lute;

It is good

To lean against

The great pines.

In the gardens to the South,

The sun-flowers are wet with dew;

They will pick them at dawn.

And all night

In the Western villages

One hears the sound of yellow millet being pounded.