Classic Poem

When spring arrives, emerging from winter,
where nothing sang, the birds now sing
where nothing blossomed, flowers blossom
yet the hills are so lush, that nothing can be picked,
and the grass is so deep that nothing can be seen.
But in the autumn hills I can see the tree leaves
and pick the yellow ones with wonder
while I leave the green ones with longing:
and that is my only regret,
as I choose the autumn hills.