Here Are The Doleful Rains, And One Would Say The Sky Is Weeping The Death Of The Tolerable Weather. Tedium Cloaks The Wit Like A Veil Of Clouds And We Sit Down Indoors. Now Is The Time For Poetry Coloured With Summer. Let It Fall On The White Paper As Ripe Flowers Fall From A Perfect Tree. I Will Dip Down My Lips Into My Cup Each Time I Wet My Brush. And Keep My Thoughts From Wandering As Smoke Wanders, For Time Escapes Away From You And Me Quicker Than Birds. From The Chinese Of Tu Fu (712-770).