The six arts, splendid and vast, a school of its own,
To till the Way should bring harvest, yet drought I've known.
My sparse temples mark the passing of sun and moon,
My tattered robe is thin against frost and snow's boon.
Who says the world is wide? I find a meal hard won.
Mistaken, I fell to clerical work, hand sore from the pen.
The royal court casts heaven's net, with edicts sent again.
With cold eye watching craftsmen's hands, judging talents then.
In splendid halls, jade dust stirs; behind embroidered screens, incense fades.
To find one man for the state can make the world's peace grades.
Back then they called for painters—should I feel no shame?
To cast aside the brush for merit, to hold fast my aim.
A steed from Wo Vale with a heart for miles, tethered, old, in the stall.
Is there no plate of clover to serve as morning meal at all?
Is there no lotus garment to ward off winter's call?
Heaven and earth grow vast and wild; to meet one's time is hard, I feel.
The world does not side with me; not to leave is stubborn, unreal.
My heart for the old hills wavers, long winds stir banners on the keel.
You now have disciples at your gate, fine manors fill the land's appeal.
Between us lies a distance, far more than a small span.
Another time, at White Cloud Lodge, I'll look to you to share the wine can.
If wealth and honor come, forget me not; do not just sigh, if you can.