Tea
fragrant leaves, tender buds.
The desire of poetic guests, the love of the Saṅgha.
Cut and ground white jade, red silk woven on a loom.
Boiled in a pan—the color of yellow pistils, swirled around in a bowl—blossoms of yeast mold.
At the end of the night it invites you to accompany the bright
moon, before dawn it makes you face the morning mist.
Washing it down, people of the past and present never tire.Who
can make such a claim after getting drunk?
-- Yuan Zhen (779–831), Quan Tang shi.
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