Classic Poem

Third month, eleventh day;
no reason to light the kitchen fire this morning.
The wife said she'd pawn my fur;
I scolded her at first and stopped her.
I suppose the cold has already gone,
what pawnbroker would take the coat?
Suppose the cold returns,
how am I to survive the winter?
The wife retorted angrily:
how can you be so foolish?
I know that it's not the most glorious coat ever,
but the thread was woven by these hands;
I grudge it twice as much as you,
but mouth and belly are more urgent than furs.
A man who doesn't eat twice a day, the ancients say,
is heading for starvation,
and a starving man can drop morning or evening;
so how can you promise yourself another winter?
I called the servant and sent him at once to sell the fur.
I thought we'd survive for several days on the proceeds.
But what the servant brought back was no equivalent.
Suspicious, I suggested he might have pocketed some for himself.
The servant's face went an angry color.
He quoted the pawnbroker:
already summer encroaches on what's left of spring,
is it reasonable to buy furs at a time like this?
The only reason I'm willing to parry winter early
is that I have a little extra.
If I didn't have that bit to spare,
I wouldn't give you a single bag of grain.
Hearing this, I was ashamed, ashamed;
tears flowed down and wet my chin.
Fruit of arduous midwinter weaving,
given away in a morning,
brings no relief from great hunger;
famished children in a line like bamboo stalks.
I look back to younger, more sprightly days
when I knew nothing of the affairs of the world.
For a man who has read thousands of books, I thought,
passing the government examination
will be like pulling a hair from my beard.
I was filled with sudden self-conceit;
surely a good post will be allotted me.
Why have I had such a mediocre lot,
why has poverty embraced my sad path?
Reflecting sincerely on all this,
obviously I'm not without fault.
In my drinking, I never had control;
invariably I tipped a thousand cups.
Words normally kept hidden in my heart
under wine's influence were not held back.
I didn't stop till I had spewed everything out,
little knowing how false charges and vilification follow.
My conduct uniformly thus,
I deserved all this poverty and hunger.
Those beneath me did not like me,
heaven above denied me its protection.
Wherever I went, things got fouled up;
whatever I did turned out wrong.
All my own doing.
Sad, but who can I blame?
I counted my sins on my fingers
and gave myself three lashes of the whip.
But what's the point in repenting the past;
what I have to do is improve the future.