Classic Poem

( AN APOLOGY FOR HIS OWN DRUNKENNESS )

White hair covers my temples,
I am wrinkled. . . .
And though I have got five sons,
They all hate paper and brush.
A-shu is sixteen;
For laziness there is none like him.
A-hsüan does his best,
But really loathes the Fine Arts.
Yung and Tuan are thirteen,
But do not know — six — from — seven. —
Tung-tzu in his ninth year
Is only concerned with things to eat.
If Heaven treats me like this,
What can I do but fill my cup?