The stream at the foot of the mountainRuns all day.Even far back in the hills,The grass is growing;Spring is late there.From all about comes the soundOf dogs barkingAnd chickens cheeping.They are stripping the mulberry-trees,But who planted them?What a wind!We start in our boatTo gather the red water-chestnut.Leaning on my staff,I watch the sun sinkBehind the Western village.I can see the apricot-treesSet on their raised stone platform,With an old fisherman standingBeside them.It makes me thinkOf the Peach-Blossom Fountain,And the housesClustered about it.Let us meet beside the springAnd drink wine together.I will bring my table-lute;It is goodTo lean againstThe great pines.In the gardens to the South,The sun-flowers are wet with dew;They will pick them at dawn.And all nightIn the Western villagesOne hears the sound of yellow millet being pounded.
The stream at the foot of the mountainRuns all day.Even far back in the hills,The grass is growing;Spring is late there.From all about comes the soundOf dogs barkingAnd chickens cheeping.They are stripping the mulberry-trees,But who planted them?What a wind!We start in our boatTo gather the red water-chestnut.Leaning on my staff,I watch the sun sinkBehind the Western village.I can see the apricot-treesSet on their raised stone platform,With an old fisherman standingBeside them.It makes me thinkOf the Peach-Blossom Fountain,And the housesClustered about it.Let us meet beside the springAnd drink wine together.I will bring my table-lute;It is goodTo lean againstThe great pines.In the gardens to the South,The sun-flowers are wet with dew;They will pick them at dawn.And all nightIn the Western villagesOne hears the sound of yellow millet being pounded.
The stream at the foot of the mountainRuns all day.Even far back in the hills,The grass is growing;Spring is late there.From all about comes the soundOf dogs barkingAnd chickens cheeping.They are stripping the mulberry-trees,But who planted them?
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 boatTo gather the red water-chestnut.Leaning on my staff,I watch the sun sinkBehind the Western village.I can see the apricot-treesSet on their raised stone platform,With an old fisherman standingBeside them.It makes me thinkOf the Peach-Blossom Fountain,And the housesClustered about it.
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,
And the houses
Clustered about it.
Let us meet beside the springAnd drink wine together.I will bring my table-lute;It is goodTo lean againstThe great pines.In the gardens to the South,The sun-flowers are wet with dew;They will pick them at dawn.And all nightIn the Western villagesOne hears the sound of yellow millet being pounded.
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.
Li Hai-ku, 19th Century
NOTES