Yuan Hongdao

The Capital

Bright are the city walls of the capital;
Red-robed officials shout on broad streets.
There is a white-headed destitute scholar;
Hanging from his mule's saddle, sheaves of poems.
Clasping his calling card, he knocks on doors for work;
The gate keepers smirk at one another.
Ten try and ten fail;
Walk the streets, his face is haggard.
Always fear in serving the rich;

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