On a Box Containing His Own Works

I break up cypress and make a book-box;
The box well-made,--and the cypress-wood tough.
In it shall be kept what author’s works?
The inscription says PO LO-T’IEN.
All my life has been spent in writing books,
From when I was young till now that I am old.
First and last,--seventy whole volumes;
Big and little,--three thousand themes.
Well I know in the end they’ll be scattered and lost;
But I cannot bear to see them thrown away
With my own hand I open and shut the locks,
And put it carefully in front of the book-curtain.
I am like Tēng Pai-tao;
But to-day there is not any Wang Ts’an.
All I can do is to divide them among my daughters
To be left by them to give to my grandchildren.