Classic Poem

I have got wine, but am not well enough to drink;
I have got poems, but am too weak to chant them.
My head is giddy, I have had to give up fishing;
My hand is stiff, I have stopped playing my lute
All day the silence is never broken;
No worries reach me in my place of quiet retreat
My body is reconciled to its crippled state;
My heart finds refuge in its own mysteries
I sit quietly beside the small pond
Waiting for the wind to stir the lapels of my dress.