the drizzle is o'er, the light's not back yet here.
i'd rather keep my deep yard closed for the day.
as i sit and stare at the dark green moss, how queer—
my very garments seem to its green display!
enjoying the cool
a stretch of wood with tall straight trees,
where a limpid brook flows through with ease,
is opening to a wide wide stream
caressed all the time by a gentle breeze.
the ripple sink in the pure white sand,
and sturgeons swim, as if in air.
i leisurely lie on a huge rock by
with the currents cleansing my skin and hair.
i rinse my mouth, i stir my feet,
and then an elderly angler greet:
"except the greedy few caught thieves,
they love the joy 'mong lotus leaves."
autumn felt from a boundoir
the wind blows chill through her curtains and her dress thin set.
the hourglass drips so slow for the watchman out.
the moon's crossed the heavenly stream, its light gone wet,
and magpies, startled, shake the dry leaves about.