Classic Poem

I break off a branch, and prod my lazy donkey;
the bags are torn — my books fall out on the road.
Hungry, haggard — two village servants
with shirts so short they don't reach their pants!
Dry and hot, exactly noon,
as we struggle along the dusty road.
One servant is still quite strong,
but the other has no strength left.
The strong man sings mountain songs;
the tired man just sighs out loud.
Suddenly, the road ends, and a wood appears;
they say we have reached the mountain village.
Earthen walls supporting thatched roofs:
lanes and alleys, here, against the cliffs!
When it is learned that distant travelers have arrived,
the farmers happily welcome us.
To go with the millet, a chicken must be killed —
but the chicken has flown into the neighbor's courtyard!
A jug is opened, and thick wine poured out;
wild vegetables are cut, and brought in a basket.
Drunk and sated, I lie on a rope-bed,
and dream at once that I have traveled to paradise.
When I wake, the mountain moon is high;
I rise and walk where my steps take me.
The night air seems fresher than ever;
suddenly, I realize my cares have disappeared.
If I didn't fear burdening my host,
I'd stay here for a month, and not go home!