Classic Poem

Your garden hut stands by the green waters.
No tax-collectors ever come here!
For your yearly stipend—a thousand orange trees;
for your autumn wardrobe—half an acre of lotus!
When you drink, you get drunk before all your guests.
The transmission of your poems you leave to the masses.
Because you love the scenery along the stream,
you go off alone in a boat, for a week at a time.