Classic Poem

This sheepskin coat may be worn out,
but it is loved by me!
Over the years, the hairs have fallen out—now
it is no longer thick.
But in my poverty, I love the old leather,
and can't throw it away—
old things can be the same as old friends!
Here in this province, there is snow in the ninth month;
the plants all wither and the insects stop their chirping.
When I put on this coat, it doesn't warm me up
as much as one cup of wine;
my body may not be comfortable, but my heart is full of warmth.
Would it be worth a single cent at the doors of the rich?
Compared to it, regular hemp would be better
for turning back the wintry breath.
My hands are chapped, and I wish to find
an “anti-chapping ointment.”
How are you doing, bleaching silk there by the river?