Classic Poem

All night long, I couldn't fall asleep,
lying in bed, listening to the autumn rains.
The rain, it seemed, just wouldn't stop,
and my mind could not find peace.
Last year in autumn—eighth month of the year—
heavy rains fell just as the grains were ripe.
The entire harvest turned black with rot,
and even the house collapsed!
Those rains lasted for an entire month:
cliffs crumbled for hundreds of miles.
We wondered, what could the Divinity have in mind?
Does he intend to transplant the ocean?
My life has been one long frustration;
for a decade now, I've worked at farming.
If my fields do not yield a harvest,
the whole family will go hungry.
How can we make our tax payments?
I should have gone in for woodcutting,
gathering timber for pillars and beams!
—My old wife says to me,
“Just sit down for now, and don't be upset.
When human affairs cannot be determined,
how can you expect to comprehend Heaven's ways?
Short, long—there are fixed periods;
good harvests and bad—we take them as they come!
By the bed is some fine wine,
its fragrance filling the pitcher.
Why don't you just pour some for yourself:
it will help you in your years of decline.”
I lie down, drunk, and it is noon:
soon, snores will sound out like thunder.