O we poets must plough through heavy ground;
Passed old, dry bones to significant soil!
We are awakened by Nature's sweet sounds
We resurrect buried life with our toils.
The primeval seasons come and they go.
O some seem short; while others appear long!
Our task is to calmly absorb the flow:
From birdsong to violets, all becomes one.
In wintertime, new notions are sown.
In spring, they bloom and are rain and sun blessed.
In summer, we bask in their golden glow.
In autumn, we reap a ripened harvest.
O we poets must not strain, but accept change;
Then filter things so a kind of glory remains!