Here we languish, a bunch of poor
battered by extremes of hunger and cold.
Out of work, our only joy is poetry:
Scribble, scribble, we wear out our brains.
Who will read the works of such men?
On that point you can save your sighs.
We could inscribe our poems on biscuits
And the homeless dogs wouldn’t deign to nibble.
–-Han Shan (Cold Mountain, 10)
This from Poetry Mountain.