Springtime so fine
At last, a succession of sunnier, warmer days has come to Baltimore, with little purple crocuses sprouting up seemingly overnight where last there were only dead weeds. I cannot remember ever before being more thoroughly sick of winter, or more fully cheering on the wee beginnings of leaf sprouts and tree blossoms.
To honor the changing season, and memorialize the still chill winds that have kept me from fully retiring my winter coat and gloves, I present this translation of a poem by Meng Haoran 孟浩然 (c.690 – 740). Fittingly, it is called “Spring Dawn” 春曉:
Sleeping in spring, unaware of dawn,
Hearing the songs of birds here and there.
In last night’s noise of wind and rain,
how many were the blossoms that fell?