March
The east wind, knowing I plan to walk
Through the hills,
Hushed the sound of endless rain
Between the eaves.
On peaks, fair-weather clouds,
Cloth caps pulled down;
Early sun in treetops
A copper gong suspended.
Wild peach smiles over low bamboo hedges;
By clear sandy streams,
Valley willows sway.
These west hill families must be happiest of all,
Boiling cress and roasting shoots to feed
Spring planters.
– Su Tung-p’o (1073)
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