The Old Charcoal Seller

　　What does the old man fare?

　　He cuts the wood in southern hill and fires his ware.

　　His face is grimed with smoke and streaked with ash and dust,

　　His temples grizzled and his fingers all turned black.

　　The money earned by selling charcoal is not just enough for food for his mouth and clothing forhis back.

　　Though his coat is thin, he hopes winter will set in,

　　For cold weather will keep up the charcoal’s good price.

　　At night a foot of snow falls outside city walls;

　　At dawn his charcoal cart crushes ruts in the ice.

　　The sun is high, the ox tired out and hungry he;

　　Outside the southern gate is snow and slush they rest.

　　Two riders canter up. Alas! Who can they be?

　　Two palace heralds in the yellow jackets dressed.

　　Decree in hand, which is imperial order, one says;

　　They turn the cart about and at the ox they shout.

　　A cartload of charcoal a thousand catties weighs;

　　They drive the cart away. What dare the old man say?

　　Ten feet of silk and twenty feet of gauze deep red,

　　That is the payment they fasten to the ox’s head.