Dù Fǔ
A good rain knows its proper time;
It waits until the Spring to fall.
It drifts in on the wind, steals in by night,
Its fine drops drench, yet make no sound at all.
The paths between the fields are cloaked with clouds;
A river-skiff’s lone light still burns.
Come dawn, we’ll see splashes of wet red –
The flowers in Chengdu*, weighed down with rain.
