The withies near my door
are slender, supple
And like the waists of maids
of fifteen summers:
Who said, when morning came,
‘Nothing to mention’?
A mad wind has been here
and broke the longest!
The catkins line the lanes,
making white carpets,
And leaves on lotus streams
spread like green money:
Pheasants root bamboo shoots,
nobody looking,
While ducklings on the sands
sleep by their mothers.