WHITE hair covers my temples, I am wrinkled and seared beyond repair, And though I have got five sons, They all hate paper and brush. A-shu is eighteen: For laziness there is none like him. A-hsuan does his best, But really loathes the Fine Arts. Yung-tuan is thirteen, But does not know "six" from "seven." T'ung-tzu in his ninth year Is only concerned with things to eat. If Heaven treats me like this, What can I do but fill my cup? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON A PALMETTO by SIDNEY LANIER FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOSEPH DIXON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE AWAKENING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON TAGORE by MARIANNE MOORE YOU SAY YOU SAID by MARIANNE MOORE |