Mātaṅ­ga­putta

“It’s too cold, too hot,
Too late,” they say.
Those who neglect their work like this—
Opportunities pass them by.
But one who considers hot and cold
To be nothing more than a blade of grass;
He does his manly duty,
And his happiness never fails.
With my chest I’ll thrust aside
The grasses, vines, and creepers,
And devote myself to seclusion.