Classic Poem

When I was young I drove myself, strained my eyes reading;
in late years, grieving, I've shed so many tears —
for all I know the hurt to my eyes is wholly self-inflicted;
ailing now, I understand, but what's to be done?
Evenings my vision dims, as though the lamp were fading;
mornings, bleary-eyed, I think the mirror hasn't been cleaned.
A thousand drugs, ten thousand remedies can work no cure —
nothing to do but close my eyes, practice Buddhist austerities.