Yttan Hung-tao

The wild grass—green and misty; has there ever been an autumn which did not bring pain? This sick man's house has no visitors— even my little dog sleeps all day, I must look in books for things to use in poems; no money for wine to warm me up, I put on extra clothes. The door shut, I read Chuang Tzu: the chapters on Horses' Hoofs and The Floods of Autumn.