Classic Poem

Already, no more dreams of going to the capital;
only noble feelings of learning the hermit's life.
Quite poor, still I'll pawn my clothes
when I want to buy a painting;
invalid, I want to throw away my inkstone,
tired of requests for writing.
The stableboy burns piles of firewood
to scare off tigers at night;
a young girl knocks at the gate each morning,
come to sell us fish.
Tired, I rest my head on my books,
hungry, I just eat;
I laugh at myself for having such a simple plan for life.