Gather the yellow golden threads that high and low are found—
Oh, what a precious odor now is wafted all around!
XIII.
No sweeter perfume does the wild and fair Aglaia shed,
Throughout Wu-yuen’s bounds my tea the choicest will be said;
When all are picked we’ll leave the shoots to bud again in spring,
But for this morning we have done the third, last gathering.
XIV.
Oh, weary is our picking, yet do I my toil withhold?
My maiden locks are all askew, my pearly fingers cold;