Sick and weary of wandering, poor at home—what, after all, is the way?
A hundred thousand coins, riding a crane to Yangzhou—how often has man seen such dreams?
Counting a lifetime, how many clogs can one wear out? Toiling the spirit, what is achieved in old age?
Now teeth fall in pairs, hair thins on both sides, I return to seek the flavor of idleness.
See not the road to blue clouds holds hidden perils.
Songs of golden threads gradually turn to sorrow.
When I think of the Great East Gate, recall the crane at Huating, regret comes too late.
Enough! Go back, oh come away! North Mountain luckily has idle fields.
Barren land fit for melons and greens, I channel springs to dig a square pond.
This Zhongzi's vegetable garden, not to be traded for three high lords, let alone the famed melons of Dongling.
Sometimes I gallop by the stream's head, lean on the rail to fish, shed my robe to wash in clear waters.
Brewing mountain spring, now and then I drink to a tipsy heart.
Lute laid across my knees.
Ancient and plain, without strings yet holding music's trace.
Seeing off wild geese, evening clouds stretch a thousand miles.
Since ancient times, Penglai has no road; when will the Mystic Garden be reached? Just need a low table, a rush mat, idling all day in my hut, staring blankly.
This universe of sun and moon—for farther wandering, I ask that Prince.