On My Way to New Town
- Poetry of Su Shi

The eastern wind foresees I will go to the wood; 

It blows off endless songs sung by rain on the eaves.

The mountain's crowned with rainbow cloud like silken hood; 

The rising sun like a brass gong hangs o' er the leaves.

Peach blossoms smile o' er the bamboo fence not tall; 

Willow trees by the clear sand-paved brook sway and swing.

Folks in the Western Hills should be happiest of all; 

They send well-cooked food to those who till in spring.