Classic Poem

Your home is deep in the white clouds:
the green of mountains faces your gate.
The trees are thick, their flowers bear fruit;
the earth is warm, the bamboo has grandchildren!
Monkeys hang from withered pines, snapping the branches;
oxen trudge into the shallow stream, muddying the water.
You say that since you've gone into retirement
you can't bother talking to vulgar people.