Classic Poem

I took money, bought flowering trees,
planted them on the slope east of the city.
I purchased any sort that bloomed,
not just peaches and apricots and plums,
a hundred different fruits set out in a jumble,
a thousand branches blossoming in turn.
Some bloom early, some late in the season;
it's not a matter of rich or lean soil.
Red ones gorgeous as sunset clouds,
white ones as dazzling as snow —
visiting bees never leave them for an instant,
lovely birds come there to roost.
In front of the slope, endlessly rolling waters,
at the foot, a little level terrace.
Sometimes I dust off the stones on the terrace,
sit and lift a cup in the passing breeze.
Flowering branches shade my head,
petals from the blossoms fall into my lap.
Alone I pour, alone I sing,
never noticing in the west how low the sun is.
Folk here in Pa don't care much for flowers —
the whole spring not a soul appears.
Only this governor, pleasantly drunk,
at day's end can't tear himself away.