The earth has swallowed the snow.
Again plum trees open their blossoms.
The new willow leaves burn gold.
The waters of the lake are silver.
Now the butterflies dusted with gold
touch their velvet to the hearts of flowers.
In his still boat
the fisherman pulls up his silver net,
rippling the still water.
He thinks of a girl at home,
a dark swallow curled in the nest.
He thinks of the girl at home,
waiting like a swallow for her mate.
The Fisherman by Li Po