Classic Poem

Supple mind runs to meet the morning in the wheatfield;
dewdrops catch a shape, then vanish in the wind.
Glittering rainbows of July excite my wonder;
she teases with a smile, I sniff and track her in the wind.
As though to say, " It's time to take me home, child, "
at first the young shoots bend and plunge and tense;
she smiles and says, " I don't let the wind
touch my budding body, " as it tickles her stems,
and each time the breeze sways her she shrinks and feels ashamed.
Let the river have a bank, let there be yellow, let the earth be high,
let the poet's mind be filled with pleasure!
She spreads the joy.
I wandered in town, distracted, and the scent is here,
where the young shoots sing restless songs in the tender sunlight.
We uncovered many adolescent loves. . . . I remember:
but after ten months there she'll remember me
and she'll come home this year.