Classic Poem

With my many illnesses I meet the spring,
too lazy to pick up a brush!
At peace, I rest under a thatched roof,
the blinds hanging down.
A good friend has been kind enough to send fish and wine;
the old farmers are not unhappy to age another year.
On and on—the snowy clouds reflect on the water;
brilliant sun—a ray of light slants suddenly past the eaves.
Cup in hand, I smile to myself as I get completely drunk;
an official, a hermit: how many other men
can be both of these at once?