Classic Poem

Frost-sad, clouds of white hair,
locked behind iron doors:
tea-fragrance or dogwood wine —
none of them for me!
In southern hat, old and weak,
I yearn to wear black cap;
the jailor's footsteps, stumbling sound,
I take for the white-robed messenger.
My wife, like the chrysanthemum,
how gaunt has she become?
Myself, like a wild goose up north,
when will I fly home?
Far away, I know throughout the world
are mountain-climbing gatherings;
many men point to the Yen Mountains,
pour libations in the setting sun.