Spring Awakening

The Breath of Life in Ancient Verse

In classical Chinese poetry, spring is more than just a season; it is a profound symbol of rebirth, fleeting beauty, and hope. From the gentle, life-giving night rain to the vibrant apricot blossoms reaching over a garden wall, these ancient verses invite us to pause and witness the earth's quiet awakening.

春，是万物复苏的生机，也是文人墨客笔下最灵动的画卷。从“随风潜入夜”的润物细雨，到“一枝红杏出墙来”的满园春色。在此，我们循着古人的目光，共赴一场跨越千年的春日盛宴。

On Qiantang Lake in Spring- 钱塘湖春行

West of Jia Pavilion and north of Lonely Hill,

Water brims level with the bank and clouds hang low.

Disputing for sunny trees, early orioles trill;Pecking vernal mud in,

young swallows come and go.A riot of blooms begins to dazzle the eye;

Amid short grass the horse hoofs can barely be seen.

I love best the east of the lake under the sky;

The bank paved with white sand is shaded by willows green.

Visiting a Private Garden without Success- 游园不值

Perhaps he’s afraid my wooden shoes will damage the moss.

I knocked on the door, but the door never opened.

It’s impossible to wall in the beauty of spring,

An apricot branch draped in red blossoms has crept over the wall.

A Spring Day- 春日

I seek for spring by riverside on a fine day,

O what refreshing sight does the boundless view bring?

I find the face of vernal wind in easy way:

Myriads of reds and violets reveal only spring.

River Scenes on a Spring Evening Written to Accompany Two Pictures Drawn by Monk Huichong- 惠崇春江晚景二首

Ⅰ

Behind bamboo two or three sprays of peach-tree grow,

When spring has warmed the stream,ducks are the first to know.

The land o'verrun by weeds and water studd'd with reeds,

It is time when globefish to swim upstream preceeds.

Ⅱ

Returning wild geese from the flock would break away,

North-going wayfarers are reluctant to go.

Knowing from afar the desert's still covered with snow,

For half a month more in the South they would fain stay.

An Ode to the Willow- 咏柳

Up to your crown, O willow, dressed in the green of jades,

Myriads of twigs so verdant, droop like your silken braids.

Who knows who the tailor is, who’s cut your leaves so fine? It’s

The vernal winds past February, sharp as the scissors’ blades.