1
But for the cockerel calling the noon hour,
No voice is heard in the lane of willow-flower.
The young leaves of the mulberry, half-uncurl'd,
Are showing their green tips of the warm world.
Waling from quiet dreams, where I drowse in my chair,
With nothing to do but enjoy the bright air,
I look from my window, flooded now with noon,
And see the silkworm break form her cocoon.

2
In the high fields the green of the wheat runs.
To join the mountain curve, green and bronze.
The river meadows, not yet under plow,
A darker, more luxuriant, greenness show.
The village, aglow with flowering almond and peach,
Looks like a picture drawn with silver stitch:
And there the people, with song, dancing, and drum,
Make festival because the spring is come.

3
The rain over, I put my sandals on,
To walk where earlier wayfarers have gone,
Whose horses' hooves, imprinting in the mud
These brimming winecups, mark their joyous road.
My dog, following at heel as he's bid,
Soon forgets his master and runs ahead,
Till reaching a broad brook he stands at check,
Then soberly, unbidden, ambles back.

Late Spring

4
Butterflies, sauntering lazily here and there,
Enter the vegetable flowers pair by pair.
I bathe in the golden stream of the long day,
Having in mind no guest will come my way.
But hark! A bark! And from over the bamboo fence
There's a sudden scatter of silly fugitive hens!
I spend no time wondering who it can be:
A merchant come to buy my leaves of tea.