  IN THE EIGHTH-MOON OF AUTUMN, WITH A VICIOUS HOWLING, WIND TORE THREE LAYERS OF THATCH FROM MY POOR ROOF. FLYING OVER THE RIVER THE THATCH RAINED ON THE EMBANKMENT, TANGLED IN THE TREES, WHIRLED AFAR TO SINK AND SETTLE IN THE MARSHES. A SWARM OF BOYS FROM THE VILLAGE LAUGHED AT ME BECAUSE I AM FEEBLE. O INSOLENCE! STEALING MY THATCH AND CARRYING IT OFF TO PLAY WITH IN THE BAMBOO GROVE! I SCREAMED AT THEM WITH A DRY TONGUE ... BUT THEY LAUGHED AT ME AND I CAME HOME SIGHING. THEN THE WIND STOPPED, THE CLOUDS TURNED DARK, AND NIGHT CAME ON LIKE INK. MY OLD COTTON QUILT WAS COLD AS IRON ... MY SWEET SON TOSSED IN HIS SLEEP, BARE FEET STICKING THROUGH THE BLANKET ... RAIN CAME THROUGH THE ROOF TILL THERE WAS NOT A DRY INCH IN BED. LIKE STRINGS OF WAX THE RAIN HUNG DOWN ... ALL THESE DISASTERS OF WAR HANG DOWN AND KEEP US FROM PEACEFUL REST. I DREAM OF A GREAT HOUSE WITH TEN THOUSAND ROOMS. THERE ALL COLD CREATURES CAN TAKE SHELTER, WITH BRIGHT FACES, OUT OF THE RAIN, OUT OF THE WIND, SAFE IN A HOUSE SOLID AS A MOUNTAIN. AH, WHEN SHALL I EVER SEE SUCH A HOUSE? COULD I EVER SEE IT ... AH, THOUGH THE WIND TORE DOWN MY HUT ENTIRELY, THOUGH I FROZE TO DEATH IN THE STORM, THEN SHOULD I DIE HAPPY. [Tu Fu] |
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