“I shuffled through red dust for a decade,

but often dreamed of verdant mountains.

The purple cord of court seals doesn't rival peaceful sleep.

Grand gates of red don't compare to having less.

Swordsmen protecting a sickly lord,

the song of raucous drunkards: how disgusting.

I'm toting my old books back to my hermitage,

back to flowers and birdsong and familiar spring."

Ch'en Tuan