Rain

Roads not yet glistening, rain slight,
Broken clouds darken after thinning away.
Where they drift, purple cliffs blacken.
And beyond -- white birds blaze in flight.

Sounds of cold-river rain grown familiar,
Autumn sun casts moist shadows. Below
Our brushwood gate, out to dry at the village
Mill: hulled rice, half-wet and fragrant.

by Du Fu

Comments (1)

Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, And I to nurse the barren memory Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung. Great poetry.