Mr. Wanqiu is tall as a hill,
Yet his study is small as a boat.
Often he bows his head, reciting classics and histories;
Suddenly he stretches—and his head bumps the roof.
Slanting wind blows the curtain, rain splashes his face;
The master feels no shame, though onlookers blush for him.
He'd rather let a glutton die laughing at Dongfang Shuo,
Than beg Qin's actors for shelter in the rain.
What are the petty conflicts before one's eyes?
To settle the six senses, one must roam with Heaven.
Reading ten thousand volumes but not the legal codes,
To assist the sovereign like Yao and Shun—he knows no art.
Officials urging farming bustle like clouds;
For old age, pickled vegetables taste sweet as honey.
Ten thousand affairs before his gate don't catch his eye;
Though his head is often bowed, his spirit remains unbent.
As assistant prefect of Yuhang, with no merit to claim,
His painted hall, five zhang wide, can host banners and flags.
Towering buildings span the sky, rain sounds distant;
Many rooms, few people—the wind sighs and moans.
What once brought shame in life now brings no disgrace;
Sitting opposite weary peasants, he wields the whip.
Meeting Yang Hu on the road, he answers his call;
In heart knowing it's wrong, with mouth he says 'yes.'
High in position but low in ambition—what good is that?
Integrity and spirit have dwindled, now almost gone.
The minor craft of writing—how can it mark a path?
The Master and the Assistant were once equally famed.
Now both aged and feeble, of little use,
They're left for the world to judge their weight.