My years approach old age, the world's taste grows thin;
What I still love, unwaning, is but to drink tea.
Though Jian Creek's bitter distance I cannot reach in,
Since youth I've seen Min people boast of it with glee.
I oft scoff at Jiang-Zhe's common, coarse tea grass,
That grows in tangled clumps where only snakes may hide.
How could they match the fragrant, greasy gold-cake's class,
Where two coiled dragons play, their mouths open wide?
The other grades are also wondrous, rare,
The smaller, finer, all are tender buds.
When brewed, white flowers like powdered milk appear;
At first sight, purple faces glow with light.
Holding it loved in hand, I will not grind it sheer,
Like playing with a seal, it's almost marred.
By merit, it can cure a hundred ills, they say,
Lighten the body, long taken, better than sesame.
I say such claims are rather overblown,
In truth, it best dispels the drowsy evil.
The tea official's tribute surplus, sent by chance,
From distant lands, fresh goods, their kindly intent clear.
Newly brewed, repeatedly sipped, no weariness I sense;
I deem this joy truly without bound.
Not yet said: long eating makes the hand tremble,
Already I feel illness, hunger, eyes growing dim.
The guest, plagued by water-woe, tiredly holds the bowl,
His mouth no different from the moon-gnawing toad.
Servants watching by suspect and laugh again,
Such eccentric craving truly merits sigh.
Still more, rewarded with verses, strange and shocking,
The children add their clamor, noisy, squawking.