To Cao Xueqin
A long, long winding path leads to green hill and rill;
Ivy leaves and rainbow clouds veil your cottage still.
Gone for poetic verve, in temple cell you stay;
With money earned by pictures sold, for wine you pay.
You croon like mad in northern fair over your fate;
You dream of splendor of Southern River of late.
How much regret of old and how much sorrow new!
Drunken, you look with scorn at the pool world in view.