Classic Poem

This morning, splendid breeze and sunlight,
north window where the new rain passed;
visitors sent off, I open my book;
then my wife comes with her story:
" No money coming in — all these relatives —
eight mouths — how can we get along alone?
No one important ever comes to call —
poverty and cold — that's all we'll ever know!
If only you'd be a little less sharp —
try being pleasant to others for a change — "
My illness, who can cure it?
The bones I have are the ones Heaven gave me.
If I'd stayed in my father's fief
I'd never have forgone official service.
But if I went back to that petty routine,
wouldn't I be false to my father's hopes?
Go away — don't bother me!
I'm trying to converse with the men of old.