白居易诗选/东坡种花

Not caring whether peach, apricot, or plum. A hundred fruits, all mixed up together; A thousand branches, flowering in due rotation. Each has its season coming early or late;

But to all alike the fertile soil is kind. The red flowers hang like a heavy mist; The white flowers gleam like a fall of snow. The wandering bees cannot bear to leave them;

The sweet birds also come there to roost. In front there flows an ever-running stream; Beneath there is built a little flat terrace. Sometimes I sweep the flagstones of the terrace;

Sometimes, in the wind, I raise my cup and drink. The flower-branches screen my head from the sun; The flower-buds fall down into my lap. Alone drinking, alone singing my songs

I do not notice that the moon is level with the steps. The people of Pa do not care for flowers; All the spring no one has come to look. But their Governor General, alone with his cup of wine Sits till evening and will not move from the place!