Dare I, at my age, accept my summons,
Knowing of the world's ways only wine and song? . . .
Over the moon-edged river come wildgeese from the Tartars;
And the thinner the leaves along the Huai, the wider the southern mountains . . .
I ought to be glad to take my old bones back to the capital,
But what am I good for in that world, with my few white hairs? . . .
As bent and decrepit as you are, I am ashamed to thank you,
When you caution me that I may encounter thunderbolts.