This isolated village, I'm content, is far from urban dust.
My tiny tiny quarter is full of more than I can enjoy.
A slender pipe diverts water from the spring to wash my inkstone.
I change the window paper so I may read books better.
The leaves fallen from the feng I call a maid to sweep away.
The frozen roots in the herb garden I hire an old man to plow.
Days are short, but to me, a woman of leisure, they feel long,
as I recite poems, learn to paint, rather than make myself pretty.