Classic of Poetry

It floats about, that boat of cypress wood; Yea, it floats about on the current. Disturbed am I, and sleepless, As if suffering from a painful wound. It is not because I have no wine, And that I might not wander and saunter about.

My mind is not a mirror;— It cannot [equally] receive [all impressions]. I, indeed, have brothers, But I cannot depend on them. If I go and complain to them, I meet with their anger.

My mind is not a stone;— It cannot be rolled about. My mind is not a mat;— It cannot be rolled up. My deportment has been dignified and good, With nothing wrong which can be pointed out.

My anxious heart is full of trouble; I am hated by the herd of mean creatures; I meet with many distresses; I receive insults not a few. Silently I think of my case, And, starting as from sleep, I beat my breast.

There are the sun and the moon,— How is it that the former has become small, and not the latter? The sorrow cleaves to my heart, Like an unwashed dress. Silently I think of my case, But I cannot spread my wings and fly away.