Classic Poem

Rushing around on morning errands,
for relaxation, my villa in the woods,
but mostly I get to go there only when I'm sick;
it's seldom I enjoy it in good health.
Patches of white — frost invades my temples;
in a yellow flurry the sun drops behind the hills.
Idle times, busy times — both get you through the days,
but busy is nowhere as nice as idle.