Classic Poem

Poets are usually pure, rugged,
Die from hunger, cling to desolate mountains
Since this white cloud had no master,
When it flew off, its mind was free from care.
After long sickness, a corpse on a bed,
The servant boy too weak to manage the funeral
Your old books, all gnawed by famished rats,
Lie strewn and scattered in your single room.
As you go off to the land of new ghosts,
I look on your features white as old jade
I am ashamed that, when you enter the earth,
No one calls after you, to hold you back
All the springs lament for you in vain,
As the day lengthens, murmuring waters mourn.