Classic Poem

The house is small, a fret to occupants,
mud is deep, the horse stubborn and doltish.
I live east of the avenue, a quiet area,
come home from work in the noonday heat.
The courtyard is cramped, hardly room to plant bamboo,
the wall so high I can't see the mountains.
In a spot like this, what one wants
is a heart broad-dimensioned and serene.