Classic Poem

On the shore a single pine
amid layers of rocky cliffs.
The pine preserves its solitary spirit,
for the shore is blocked in all directions.
The lot of its branches is to grow old, still short,
by nature its flourishing needles are fine.
Insentient clouds spontaneously gather,
lightly covering its boughs with snow.
Even if confronted by angry waves,
its firm roots are safe from attack.
Even the master carpenters of old
would find its gnarled wood useless.
Red trees grow in the southeast isles.
Yellow willows flourish on the northwest peaks.
The wealthy always love to use them,
and greedy officials gather them at will.
They are hacked by knives, chopped with axes.
Born in spring, they do not last through winter.
Elegance is truly to be feared!
I too would like to dwell on the isolated shore.