But not I among them.
Because I dance too much, my garment of thin cloth is worn.
My bottle is empty, for I spurt out the wine when we sing.
Eat a full meal.
Don't tire your feet.
The day when weeds are sprouting through your skull,
You will regret what you have been.24
The life he describes for himself is one immersed in poetry. He is the compleat poet, whose only concern is writing (not publishing) verse.
Once at Cold Mountain, troubles cease—
No more tangled, hung-up mind,