Classic Poem

My hut, beside the crystal stream,
is growing old: half has fallen down.
So much for the part that's fallen down—
but the part that's standing soon will topple too.
The old plum tree slants sideways with the house,
propping up the wall above the water.
A friend, concerned my house will soon collapse,
has sent some grain to pay for the repairs.
Sacks are carried in, startling the neighbors,
just a few pecks to pay the workmen's wage.
Still we lack the stone and wood we need:
tomorrow, we will have to sell one pig.
“Why is everyone working so hard?”
My dumb son pesters the old housemaid.
Before too long, the windows let through light,
and the path again is clear from end to end.
My wife begins to get a little greedy—
pointing at the old foundation stones,
she says she wants to pawn some of our clothes
to pay for an extension to the house.
With a smile, I remind my wife:
“Outside, the cold is just beginning.
Let's keep this little bit of open land
and wait until the springtime breezes blow.
I myself will carry out a hoe
and plant a vegetable garden in the yard.”