Classic Poem

The empty boat
drifts on and on at will
Till it returns at last
into infinity
After Spring came
I had hardly looked around
When suddenly it was
the middle of the year
By the southern windows
no trace of tiresome things,
And the northern woods
are dense and flowering
The deep abyss of Heaven
sends the season's rain
And the morning's color
heralds the south wind.
Once come into this world
there is none but must depart,
But that is not the end
of the meaning of our lives.
To dwell in what is constant
and so await the end,
Though one's only pillow
should be his bended arm
That will not destroy
his inner quietness.
Becoming an Immortal
is a steep and dangerous road
But to set one's own ideals
is a broad and level highway.
If we are lofty
in our everyday pursuits
What would be the use
of climbing Hua or Song.