Classic Poem

From Lake Tung-t'ing we travel west
to the Shrine of the Goddess;
here to comfort weary travelers
are women with painted brows.
The mountain town is desolate,
shops close at early hours;
the fortress tower's light still far,
we're late to moor our boat.
The dialect here I do not speak —
I'll hire interpreters;
such strange birds — I don't know their names,
ashamed as a scholar of the Odes .
How rare to find a boatman
who understands my heart:
each time I open the cabin window
there's a branch of blossom on shore.