Clouds rumbling in the sky, teeming rain,
I sit on the river bank, and sad alone.
The sheaves lie gathered, harvest has ended,
The river is swollen and fierce in its flow.
As we cut the paddy it started to rain.

One small paddy-field, no one but me−
Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.
Trees on the far bank: smear shadows like ink
On a village painted in deep morning grey.
On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.

Who is this,steering close to the shore
Singing? I feel he is someone I know
The sails are filled wide, he gazes ahead,
Waves break helplessly against the boat, on each side.
I watch and feel I have seen his face before.

Oh to what foreign land do you sail/
Come  to the bank and moor your boat for a while.
Go where you want to. give where you care to,
But come to the bank a moment, show your smile−
Take away my golden paddy when you sail.

Take it; take as much as you can load.
Is these more? No, none, I have put it abroad.
My intense labour here by the river−
I have parted with it all, layer upon layer;
Now take me as well, be kind, take me abroad.

No room, no room, the boat is too small,
Loaded with my gold paddy, the boat is full.
Across the rain-sky clouds heave to and fro,
On the bare river bank, I remain alone−
What had has gone; the golden boat took all.

−William Radice