Du Fu (Tang Dynasty)
In the eighth moon, the autumn wind howls high and strong, tearing three layers of thatch from my roof along; some thatch flies over the river and spreads on the shore, some hangs on the treetops, and some sinks to the muddy ground.
The village children mock my age and weakness, steal my thatch into the bamboos with boldness; my lips are dry, my shouts are all in vain, I come back leaning on my staff and sigh around.
Soon the wind stops, clouds turn dark, the autumn sky is gloomy and black; my quilt is cold as iron for years, my kid sleeps badly and tears the bed in fears; the roof leaks, no dry spot remains, the rain drips like hemp threads without end; since the war, I've had little sleep. How can I get through this long night?
Oh for a mansion of thousands of rooms, to shelter all poor scholars with happy blooms; unmoved by wind and rain, it stands like a mountain! Alas, when shall I see such a house before my eyes? Then my own hut may break and I may freeze, but I would be content to die in such a light!
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