Classic Poem

Spring comes to the lake, looking like a painting,
jumbled peaks circling the flat inlay of water.
Pines line the hill face, a thousand banks of emerald;
moon dots the heart of the waves, one round pearl.
Early rice plants poking up—nap of a blue felt carpet;
new rushes spreading over the water like green gauze skirts and sashes.
The fact I've yet to break away from Hangchow—
half is because I'm held here by this lake!