The fields are chill， the sparse rain has stopped；

　　The colours of Spring teem on every side.

　　With leaping fish the blue pond is full；

　　With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.

　　The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks；

　　The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist.

　　By the bamboo stream the last fragment of cloud

　　Blown by the wind slowly scatters away.