Thursday poem - Swiftly

Swiftly the years, beyond recall,
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring clothing,
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.

T'ao Ch'ien (translation by Arthur Waley) 

Reginald H. Blyth called this "the best translation of the best poem in the world". We are still several weeks away from seeing new corn in northern fields, but for me, T'ao Ch'ien's eight lines are the essence of April and springtime.