White duckweed blooms—oh, crystal palace fair,
If I leave here, where shall I go, and where?
The axe sounds ding-ding, building me a nest;
Herbs form my walls, and magnolia beams rest.
At dawn I welcome clouds upon the hill;
At dusk I bid the clouds return, until.
Rough offerings for seasons are supplied;
Why should I seek the market's bustling tide?
Ginger plots and taro fields extend,
Melon vines grow long, young mulberries bend.
High fields—the soil is rich and deep,
Wheat awns like brooms, millet grains heap.
Low fields—as if pressed by a hand,
Rice plants crisscross by clear springs stand.
Milk-like streams not flood, drought fires not flare;
The gods' great grace—who would not dare to care?
I bow at golden door, pour spicy wine,
With drums' thump-thump, bright canopies incline.
Pour silver cup, fill earthen bowl with cheer,
Black bream, frosty celery—elders share.
Birds urge to drink, wind opens the gate wide;
In all the cosmos, who is like me, free of pride?
High office, though alluring, I'd decline,
To keep my humble cottage as a sign.
They have their crises—I, almost carefree,
With falcon on gold leash, bright and grand,
To chase fox, hare, for my meal at hand.
Horse with jade bit, brocade as screen,
At Tanxi's depth, a leap of five fathoms is seen.
To bark for men—then one may wear their bell;
To crow for men—then one may eat their grain well.
What's valued—quiet, aloof, and high;
What's scorned—glaring, busy, passing by.
I'd rather be a wild goose, on lakes to feed,
Or be a turtle, dragging tail in mud indeed.