Classic Poem

Eighth year, twelfth month,
fifth day: thick-falling snow,
bamboo and cypress all felled by the cold—
what then of people with no clothes?
Look around the village—
of ten houses, eight or nine poor.
North wind sharp as a sword—
plain cloth and padding can't shield the body;
nothing to do but burn weeds and brambles,
sit huddled all night, waiting for dawn.
Now I know that years of bitter cold
bring suffering to farm folk most of all.
And I reflect how I myself passed these days,
snug in a thatched hall, gate shut,
in woolens and furs, under silk coverlets,
sitting, lying down, warmth overflowing;
happily spared the ache of hunger and cold,
what's more, no need to work the fields.
Thinking of those others, I'm filled with shame,
ask myself what kind of man I am.