Classic Poem

North of my lodge, south of my lodge, spring rivers all;
day by day I see only flocks of gulls convening
Flower paths till now have never been swept for a guest;
my thatch gate opening for you, opens for the first time
For food—the market's far—no wealth of flavors;
for wine—my house is poor—only old muddy brew
If you don't mind drinking with the old man next door
I'll call across the hedge and we can finish off what's left.