Classic Poem

I would not work elsewhere but on a farm;
For toil my farm and mulberry leaves suffice
I do it without other laborers,
And cold and hungry feed on husks of rice
I only want enough to eat my fill,
Only expect sufficient grain to eat;
For winter satisfied with country cloth,
Rough linen serves me for the days of heat,
Yet even these desires I cannot meet;
This pitiful reflection gives me pain.
All other men can satisfy their needs,
But my attempts prove clumsy and in vain.
If such a fate is destined to be mine,
Let us drink to it with a cup of wine.