Classic Poem

In the Royal City spring is almost over;
Tinkle, tinkle — the coaches and horsemen pass.
We tell each other " This is the peony season " ;
To follow with the crowd that goes to the Flower Market.
Cheap and dear — no uniform price;
The cost of the plant depends on the number of blossoms.
To flaming reds, a hundred on one stalk;
The humble white with only five flowers
Silk is spread as an awning to protect them;
Around is woven a wattle-fence to screen them
If you sprinkle water and cover the roots with mud,
When they are transplanted, they will not lose their beauty. "
Each household thoughtlessly follows the custom,
Man by man, no one realizing
There happened to be an old farm labourer
Who came by chance that way
He bowed his head and sighed a deep sigh;
But this sigh nobody understood
He was thinking, " A cluster of deep-red flowers
Would pay the taxes of ten poor houses. "