farm it.
My house leaks; I am too lazy to mend it.
My clothes are torn; I am too lazy to darn them.
I have got wine, but am too lazy to drink;
So it's just the same as if my cellar were empty.
I have got a harp, but am too lazy to play;
So it's just the same as if it had no strings.
My wife tells me there is no more bread in the house;
I want to bake, but am too lazy to grind.
My friends and relatives write me long letters;
I should like to read them, but they're such a bother to open.
I have always been told that Chi Shu-yeh[1]
Passed his whole life in absolute idleness.
But he played the harp and sometimes transmuted metals,
So even _he_ was not so lazy as I.

[1] Also known as Chi K`ang. A famous Quietist.

[24] ILLNESS AND IDLENESS

[_Circa A.D. 812_]

Illness and idleness give me much leisure.
What do I do with my leisure, when it comes?
I cannot bring myself to discard inkstone and brush;
Now and then I make a new poem.
When the poem is made, it is slight and flavourless,
A thing of derision to almost every one.
Superior people will be pained at the flatness of the metre;
Common people will hate the plainness of the words.
I sing it to myself, then stop and think about it ...

* * * * *

The Prefects of Soochow and P`eng1-tse1[1]
Would perhaps have praised it, but they died long ago.
Who else would care to hear it?
No one to-day except Yuuan Chen1,
And _he_ is banished to the City of Chiang-ling,
For three years an usher in the Penal Court.
Parted from me by three thousand leagues
He will never know even that the poem was made.

[1] Wei Ying-wu, eighth century A.D., and T`ao Ch`ien, A.D. 365-427.

[25] WINTER NIGHT

[_Written during his retirement in 812_]

My house is poor; those that I love have left me;
My body sick; I cannot join the feast.
There is not a living soul before my eyes
As I lie alone locked in my cottage room.
My broken lamp burns with a feeble flame;
My tattered curtains are crooked and do not meet.
"Tsek, tsek" on the door-step and window-sill
Again I hear the new snow fall.
As I grow older, gradually I sleep less;
I wake at midnight and sit up straight in bed.
If I had not learned the "art of sitting and forgetting,"[1]
How could I bear this utt