Level fields expand into lakes;
summer's second month is full of rain.
On the spit, egrets too damp to fly;
in the woods, orioles hold back—then sing.
Firewood? The villagers borrow from neighbors;
field-lunches brought out in time for noon.
Bramble gates here have no locks:
men leave and return with stick and sandals.
The white gulls and farmers seem to know each other;
they've gotten beyond distinctions of “thou” and “you.”

Minister Wang belonged to the poets,
but his talent in painting was also Heaven-sent.
Just consider, Sir, after a hundred generations
there are still so many who imitate his art.
Now I have always loved mountains and valleys;
by chance I've been tied down with sash and cap.
Let me question this old man beneath the pine tree:
“How many others left the world with you?”