Classic Poem

What do you think of my life,
you who are buried in red dust,
Do I match the dead
in the pursuit of elegant pleasures?
Between heaven and earth
there are many men like me,
But buried among hills and groves,
do I not know the utmost joy?
In a small thatched hut
before an emerald stream,
Among the thickets of pine and bamboo,
I play host to the winds and moon.
Winter left us the other day, and
a new spring has returned.
Peach and apricot blossoms are
in full bloom in the evening sun,
Green willows and fragrant grasses
are green in a fine drizzle.
As if in the marks of a chisel,
as if in strokes of a brush,
The deft skill of the Fashioner of Things
is truly brilliant everywhere.
The birds sing coyly in the wood.
drunk with spring air.
Nature and I are one,
and the pleasure is the same.
I walk about the brushwood gate
or sit in the arbor,
Stroll, hum, and chant.
The day in the hills is quiet,
Few know the true flavor of leisure.
Come, let's go view hills and waters.
Today walk on the fresh grass,
tomorrow bathe in the I River.
Gather ferns in the morning,
go fishing in the evening.
Let's strain newly matured wine
through a turban of kudzu vine,
And drink, keeping count of our cups
with the branches of flowering trees.
Gentle breeze quickly rises
over the green waters scattering
Clear fragrance on the cups
and petals on our clothes.
Let me know when the jug is empty —
I dispatch a boy to a tavern.
A grown-up rambles with a stick, and
a boy carries it on his shoulder,
Humming a verse we walk slowly.
Sitting alone by the stream,
I wash my cup on the fine sand beach
and pour wine and, holding a cup,
I look down the clear stream.
The peach blossoms float down
From the Peach Blossom Spring nearby.
That hill must mark the place.
Between the pines in a narrow lane,
with armful of azaleas,
I quickly climb a hilltop
and sit among the clouds.
A thousand and myriad villages
are scattered everywhere.
Mist and glow in the sunlight
are a brocade spread in front.
Spring color is ample
over the fields once dark.
Fame and name shun me,
wealth and rank shun me.
Who else is my friend
but the clear breeze and bright moon?
With a handful of rice and a gourdful of water,
nothing distracts me.
Well, what do you say
to a hundred years of a joyful life?