His parents left him plenty of properties:
And groves and fields—still, there's nothing to envy him.
My wife works at a shuttle—her loom goes creak, creak;
My son is at play with his babbling out mouth—'wa, wa.'
Clapping my hands, I urge the blossoms to dance;
Propping my chin, I listen to the birds sing.
Who can come and admire all this?!
Alas! Only the woodmen repeatedly pass me by.
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