Clearing at Dawn

The fields are chill, the sparse rain has stopped;

The colours of Spring teem on every side.

With leaping fish the blue pond is full;

With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.

The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks;

The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist.

By the bamboo stream the last fragment of

Blown by the wind slowly scatters away.