All the morning I have lain perversely in bed;
Now at dusk I rise with many yawns.
My warm stove is quick to get ablaze;
At the cold mirror I am slow in doing my hair.
With melted snow I boil fragrant tea;
Seasoned with curds I cook a milk-pudding.
At my sloth and greed there is no one but me to laugh;
My cheerful vigour none but myself knows.
The taste of my wine is mild and works no poison;
The notes of my harp are soft and bring no sadness.
To the Three Joys in the book of Mencius[88]
I have added the fourth of playing with my baby-boy.
[88] “Mencius,” bk. vii, pt. i, 20.
ON A BOX CONTAINING HIS OWN WORKS
I break up cypress and make a book-box;
The box well-made,—and the cypress-wood tough.
In it shall be kept what author’s works?
The inscription says PO LO-T’IEN.
All my life has been spent in writing books,
From when I was young till now that I am old.
First and last,—seventy whole volumes;
Big and little,—three thousand themes.[89]
Well I know in the end they’ll be scattered and lost;
But I cannot bear to see them thrown away
With my own hand I open and shut the locks,
And put it carefully in front of the book-curtain.
I am like Tēng Pai-tao;[90]
But to-day there is not any Wang Ts’an.[91]
All I can do is to divide them among my daughters
To be left by them to give to my grandchildren.
[89] I.e., separate poems, essays, etc.
[90] Who was obliged to abandon his only child on the roadside.
[91] Who rescued a foundling.