Willow buds steal glances at plum blossoms in flight,
The east wind blows atop a hundred flowers' height.
Spring comes to He's source, its timing unforeseen,
A thunderclap startles the branches at dawn's sheen.
The branch tips dare not yet unfurl their spear-like flags,
But first offer wonders, spitting jade, stitching gold in rags.
Sparrow-tongue buds hold spring, yet cannot speak a word,
Only the dawn dew and morning mist have heard.
Plucked and brought back, adorned with dew and misty air,
Steamed and finely pounded, thousands of times with care.
Kneaded into three hundred moon-cakes round,
The fire's temper balanced, gentle and profound.
By the mill's edge, flying fluff rolls jade-like dust,
Beneath the grindstone, falling pearls scatter golden rust.
Mount Shou's yellow bronze casts a small tripod fine,
With lively fire and fresh spring, I brew and dine.
Crab eyes have vanished, fish eyes now float and gleam,
Soughing, soughing, pine sounds send wind and rain in stream.
Dingzhou's red jade carved porcelain, flower-like and bright,
Auspicious snow fills the cup, floating white milk light.
Green clouds enter the mouth, a fragrant breeze is born,
The mouth is filled with orchid scent, endless and forlorn.
Both armpits feel a breeze, through every pore it streams,
Washing the withered gut, emptying all worldly schemes.
Have you not seen, Sir Meng, the advisor, send tea,
Startling Lu Tong from his sleep, so carefree?
Have you not seen, Bai Juyi, present tea with grace,
Awakening Liu Yuxi from his drunken space?
Lu Yu composed the Classic of Tea,
Cao Hui wrote the Inscription, you see.
Lord Fan Wenzheng smiles at tea, a sight,
With gauze cap on head, he brews on a stone vessel bright.
Plain void sees rain like cinnabar, red and grand,
Dotted into a full cup of calamus flowers, so bland.
Su Dongpo deeply grasped the art of boiling water,
After wine, he often seeks a sip, his pleasure.
Zhaozhou in dreams saw Nanquan, clear and true,
Loving to knot the incense and tea-straining bond anew.
We, brewing tea, find flavor and delight,
First testing the divine water of Hua Pool, so bright.
A field of cinnabar within, self-cultivated with care,
The golden sire and crimson maid gather and repair.
Heaven's furnace and earth's cauldron follow seasons' beat,
Refining yellow sprouts to cook white snow, so sweet.
The taste like sweet dew surpasses finest cream,
Taking it, stubborn ailments vanish as in a dream.
The body light, wishing to climb the heavenly way,
I wonder if tea exists in heaven, come what may.