Classic Poem

Hui-shu's grave neglected, overgrown with grass,
Meng-te's mound still damp, the dirt on it new;
it will soon be twelve years since Wei-chih left us,
twenty springs since Shuo-chih went to his rest.
Though their old houses are there in the city,
courts are weed-grown, gardens untended, bramble-choked.
Their old letters too — I keep them in boxes,
but the paper's torn, words worm-eaten, crumbling to dust.
All my life my circle of acquaintance has been narrow;
counting on my fingers, only five real friends,
four gone ahead of me, leaving me behind,
body frail as branches of the bayside willow.
In late years — yes — I've made new friends,
but though I learn their faces, I never learn their hearts.
Don't envy those whose lives go on too long —
live long and you recall the past with so much pain!