Classic Poem

The autumn wastes are each day wilder:
Cold in the river the blue sky stirs.
I have tied my boat to the Well Rope Star of the barbarians,
Sited my house in a village of Chu
Though the dates are ripe let others cut them down,
I'll hoe for myself where the mallows run to seed
From the old man's dinner on my plate
I'll scatter my alms to the fish in the brook.

Easy to sense the trend in the drift of life,
Hard to compel one creature out of its course
In the deepest water is the fish's utmost joy,
In the leafiest wood the bird will find its home
Age and decline are content to be poor and sick,
Praise and blame belong to youth and glory
Though the autumn wind blows on my staff and pillow
I shall not weary of the North Mountain's ferns.