Poems of Meng Jiao
When I compare worries and grey hair,
Each worry equals numerous white stalks.
Fortunately, I still have hair sufficient to
Endure the worries that come day on day.
Of old, no one spoke of weapons
And there was no war under Heaven.
Of old, no one spoke of fame
And the Way, ah, did not decline.
Tai Hang mountains soar majestic.
Heaven did not make them lowly.
Yellow River's waves are rushing mud.
Heaven did not make them clear.
Day on day, these four hooves pound.
Day on day, these two wheels roll.
Heaven may not have made these things.
But they help me to avoid the flies.
This is one of those poems where the poet refuses to stay on topic. Any topic. These are just one topic after another poems. This could mean that I am too dim to follow their line of thought. But, dim as I am, I do not think this is the case. Here we have worry and grey hair, echoes of Zhuangzi, Heaven's influence, Meng Jiao's wanderings as being outside Heaven's influence, with a nod to the Chinese equivalent of black flies which, apparently, can't keep up with a one-horse cart. I think he's just musing as he jolts down the road. And if other poets liked his poems -- and they did -- they must enjoy this aimless flow of consciousness thing.
The poem does suggest that, even before Meng Jiao was an official and was still in his wandering years, he could afford a single-horse cart. Probably nothing you would call a carraige. Probably only room for him and his meager baggage. But his work and his poetry were sufficient to keep him from wearing out his shoes. Many wandering poets did worse.