《伊川击壤集》

The Jijing Collection is a poetry collection in which the Elder of Yichuan (Shao Yong) expresses the joy he finds in his own contentment. He is not only joyful himself; he also takes pleasure in seeing the age and all things at ease in their proper states.

The Elder of Yichuan says that Zixia held poetry to be where one’s aspirations find expression. Aspirations reside in the heart and, when expressed, become words; feelings stir within and become visible in speech. When words acquire rhythm and literary grace, they are called poetry; when sounds follow a set pattern of rhythm, they are called music. Thus, by reading someone’s poems and listening to their music, one can understand their aspirations and feelings.

Though feelings take many forms, they ultimately turn on two things: one’s own circumstances and the state of the age. Personal circumstances include whether one is thriving or struggling, which, in the end, comes down to being poor or wealthy, humble or honored. The state of the age concerns the rise and decline of the state, and whether its governance is peaceful or chaotic. When Confucius selected and edited the Book of Songs, he discarded most works and kept only those that clearly distinguished good from evil and could serve as examples for later generations. Of the more than a thousand feudal states, the “Airs of the States” included poems from only fifteen; of the twelve kings of the Western Zhou, the “Greater Odes” and “Lesser Odes” preserved works from only some of them.

In recent times, poets in difficult circumstances have often written only of resentment, while those who rise to prominence commonly indulge in sensual pleasures. They put their personal joys and sorrows, and their likes and dislikes about the times, into their poems, but seldom speak of what matters to all under Heaven. As a result, most of their work remains caught up in private feelings. Feelings can draw people into their depths, and are even more dangerous than water. The ancients said that water can bear a boat, but can also capsize it: whether the boat benefits or is overturned depends on how people deal with the water. Water itself does not determine what brings benefit or harm; what matters is people’s feelings and actions.

For example, someone’s ability to walk on water does not mean that water cannot harm them. Even one skilled at crossing water may not escape drowning. If one enters the water focused only on immediate gain, danger will soon follow. Whether the fault is assigned to the person or to the water, the result is the same: life is endangered and one’s nature is injured.

Nature is the manifestation of the Dao; when nature is harmed, the Dao is harmed as well. The heart is the outer dwelling place of nature, so when the heart is harmed, nature is harmed too. The body is the dwelling place of the heart, so when the body is harmed, the heart is harmed. External things are like the boats and carts on which the body travels; when they are harmed, the body is affected too. To observe nature from the standpoint of the Dao, the heart from the standpoint of nature, the body from the standpoint of the heart, and external things from the standpoint of the body can help bring things under control, but it still cannot entirely prevent them from harming one another.

It is better to observe the Dao from the standpoint of the Dao, nature from the standpoint of nature, the heart from the standpoint of the heart, the body from the standpoint of the body, and external things from the standpoint of external things. Then, even if one wanted them to harm one another, it would be difficult to make that happen. Applying the same principle to the family, the state, and all under Heaven makes their circumstances clear.

From early adulthood, I studied Confucian learning. At the time, I felt that worldly pleasures were exceedingly rare, while the pleasures that came from observing social distinctions and moral instruction were beyond counting. And the delight of observing the myriad things was just as inexhaustible. Even when life and death, honor and disgrace, appeared before me in turn, they never entered my heart. How was that any different from the flowers, moonlight, and other scenes of the changing seasons passing before my eyes? Perhaps it was because I observed things as they were in themselves, without harming one another; all the entanglements of feeling were forgotten.

The one thing I had not forgotten was writing poetry. Yet though I had not forgotten it, I had almost forgotten it. Why do I say this? Because my way of writing poetry differs from that of most people: it is not constrained by tonal patterns, swayed by personal likes and dislikes, attached to any fixed way things must be, or driven by the pursuit of fame. It happens naturally, like a mirror reflecting an image or a bell answering a sound.

Sometimes, after speaking of principles, I observe the changing seasons in my leisure. Sometimes I quietly contemplate things, let thoughts arise with the moment, and entrust meaning to what I see. Then I give voice to those thoughts in poetry, and the lines take on their tones. Such poems are sorrowful without becoming painful, joyful without becoming unrestrained. Poetry gives expression to one’s feelings and nature, but how could it become a burden upon them?

Bells and drums are music; jade and silk are ritual offerings. If one merely covets bells, drums, jade, and silk, these words may indeed seem shallow. But if one insists on doing away with them, what becomes of ritual and music? Some say that the poetic teachings represented by the “Airs” and “Odes” of the Book of Songs applied only in ancient times, not today. This view is perhaps insufficiently broad-minded, arising only from one’s own circumstances. Alas! Have they not considered that there are few who practice goodness in the world, and many who undermine it; many who create crises, and few who sustain what is at risk? When a man of resolve lives in the fields, he speaks from the life of the fields. For this reason, I titled my collection The Collection of Striking the Earth at Yichuan.

This preface was written by Shao Yong on the Mid-Autumn Festival in the Bingwu year of the Zhiping era of the Song dynasty.

The Jiyang Collection is a collection of poems written by the Old Man of Yichuan to express his own delight. He was not only happy for himself, but also able to appreciate the state of the world in his time and the way all things each rested in their own ease.

The Old Man of Yichuan said that Zixia once explained that poetry is what the heart and mind incline toward and bring to expression. What is held within the heart and mind is “intention”; when spoken aloud, it becomes “words.” When feelings are stirred within and then revealed in speech, and when speech acquires rhythm and meter, it is called “sound.” From this we can see that concern for the times gives rise to intention; being moved by things gives rise to feeling; expressing intention is speaking; giving voice to feeling is utterance; words arranged into a composition become poetry; and sounds shaped into rhythm and meter become music. Hearing a poem or a particular sound, we can therefore understand the intentions and feelings it conveys.

Though people’s feelings take many forms, they generally turn on two things: one’s own circumstances and the condition of the age. As for personal circumstances, they amount to one’s ease or distress. The condition of the age concerns the rise and decline, peace and turmoil of the state and society. Changes in personal circumstances broadly include poverty and wealth, low and high status; changes in the age appear as flourishing or collapse, good order or disorder. Thus, when Confucius edited the Classic of Poetry, he selected from among many works a small number of poems fit to be handed down to later generations. There were more than a thousand feudal states, yet the Airs of the States in the Classic of Poetry include songs from only fifteen. The Western Zhou had twelve kings, yet the “Ya” section of the Classic of Poetry selects only some of their poems. Works deserve to be preserved when they can serve as instruction and make good and evil clear.

Poets in recent times, when in straitened circumstances, often write only of resentment; when their careers prosper, they often give themselves over to indulgent pleasure. They portray their personal circumstances as joy and anger, and the rise and decline of the age as love and hate, yet seldom take their bearings from what is right for all under Heaven. Most of their poems are therefore mired in personal feeling. Alas, feelings can entrap people more powerfully than water. The ancients said that water can carry a boat, but can also overturn it. Whether a boat is borne along or capsizes depends on the water, but whether water brings benefit or harm depends on how people handle it. Is it the water’s power to carry or overturn that brings people benefit or harm, or do people’s benefits and harms determine how they regard the water’s carrying and overturning? There must be a principle at work between the two.

For example, people can wade through water; the water does not set out to harm them. Yet even those called skilled at crossing water have never been entirely free from its dangers. If one crosses without keeping profit in mind, the water’s condition changes with one’s state of mind. If one crosses with the single aim of gaining profit, danger soon lies before one. Why insist on distinguishing whether people have harmed the water or the water has harmed people? Either way, people’s nature is damaged and their lives endangered.

Nature is the Dao as it is embodied in a person. When nature is damaged, the Dao is damaged with it. The heart and mind are the domain through which nature is expressed; when the heart and mind are damaged, nature is damaged too. The body is the dwelling place of the heart and mind; when the body is damaged, the heart and mind are damaged as well. External things are like the boats and carts that carry the body; when they are damaged, the body is affected in turn. We can see that viewing nature through the Dao, the heart and mind through nature, the body through the heart and mind, and external things through the body already gives us a hierarchy and order. Yet the possibility of mutual harm remains.

It is better to let the Dao return to the Dao, nature to nature, the heart and mind to the heart and mind, the body to the body, and external things to external things. Then, even if they wished to harm one another, how could they do so? Applying this principle, we can observe the family through the family, the state through the state, and all under Heaven through all under Heaven, and so understand the principle at work.

I began studying Confucianism in my prime. At the time, I believed that the pleasures of ordinary human life amounted to scarcely one or two ten-thousandths of what could be found in following the teachings of social roles and moral cultivation; the pleasures of observing the myriad things were beyond counting, and ever unfolding.

Though life and death, honor and disgrace were constantly crossing before my eyes, I never let them enter my heart. Do such things not pass before us like the fleeting sights and sounds of the four seasons? To observe the myriad things as they are in themselves, with neither people nor things obstructing one another, is perhaps possible because the heart has forgotten its many emotional entanglements.

The only thing I have not forgotten is poetry—though to say I have not forgotten it is almost the same as saying I have. Why? Because I write poetry differently from most people. I am not bound by meter, do not follow personal likes and dislikes, do not cling to any supposedly inevitable position, and do not seek fame or praise. I write poetry as naturally as a mirror reflects a form or a bell answers a sound.

At times, after studying principles, I take leisure to observe the changes of the seasons and quietly attend to the myriad things. Events of the time give rise to thoughts; things serve as a means to express them. From thought comes the utterance of verse, from words a poem is written, from recitation a melody takes shape, and from lines of poetry a rhythm is formed. Thus, though my poems may contain sorrow, they do not wound; though they may contain joy, they do not become unrestrained. Poetry gives voice to human feelings and nature—how could it turn around and harm them?

Bells and drums are music; jade and silk are ritual. If one simply covets the bells, drums, jade, and silk—the instruments of ceremony—then what I have said would be shallow indeed. Yet if bells, drums, jade, and silk must all be discarded, what becomes of ritual and music?

Some say that the principles expressed in the Airs and Odes of the Classic of Poetry worked in ancient times but cannot work today. This is probably not a well-rounded view, but one shaped by a person’s own circumstances. Alas! Have they never considered this? Few in the world are willing to do good, while many obstruct good deeds. Many create crises, while few help to resolve them. When a person of aspiration lives among the fields and villages, he speaks from the life found there. For this reason, I gave these collections of poems the title Collected Poems of Yichuan, Striking the Earth.

This passage was written at the Mid-Autumn Festival in the third year of the Zhiping era of Emperor Yingzong of Song (the Bingwu year).

Collected Poems of Yichuan, Striking the Earth, Volume One

“Grand Ode on Watching a Game of Go”

Some people excel at all kinds of skills. I once watched a game of chess. The players calculated their moves as though they could see the transformations of creation itself; each piece they set down revealed a subtle opening. The desire to win had no end, and the impulse to move first never gave way.

Though host and guest sat facing one another, they seemed like barbarians confronting each other. Wealth and profit stirred their hearts, and joy and anger showed plainly on their faces. They seemed to hold the power of life and death in their hands, granting or taking away with a single look.

In the heat of the contest, they were as incompatible as ice and charcoal; when play grew calm, they harmonized like the xun, an ancient clay wind instrument, and the chi, an ancient bamboo flute, played together. Their regard for one another fell short of friendship, and their thoughts were less in accord than those of husband and wife. Pearls and jade seemed to emerge from their sleeves, while dragon- and snake-like patterns of play raced through their minds.

At the chessboard, it was as though sturdy defenses rose amid a banquet, and swords clashed behind the curtains. In broad daylight, they seemed to command spirits; on level ground, dragons appeared to coil. Thunder and hail roared across a vast, open river, while on the broad land it seemed as though whales and great beasts were being slain.

The cold and heat of the game seemed to bring shared delight and anguish; darkness and brightness alike seemed obscured. Mountains and rivers spread brilliantly across the board, and the stars seemed to gather around the Xuanji, an ancient instrument for observing the heavens. Watching victory and defeat shift across the board, I was startled to realize that the paths of favor and disgrace in the world are much the same.

The higher and lower positions on the board are easy to determine, but the turns of the game are hard to control. Once what the heart intends parts ways with what one does outwardly, benefit and harm can no longer both be secured. One must seize the right moment to advance, retreat, or make room; often, the choice to take or relinquish lies in a single thought.

The clever may suffer through deceit, while the faithful may lose out through slowness. Truth and falsehood become mixed, and both titles and realities may collapse. Gain often sows the seeds of loss, and good fortune may become a path to disaster.

When the Qian and Kun trigrams are pulled apart, they form the Song hexagram, which signifies contention. When the Li and Kan trigrams shift out of alignment, they form the Kui hexagram, which signifies estrangement. Bows and arrows clash, and words brim with slander and deception. How could the world be without victory and defeat? Prosperity and decline have never ceased.

What seemed right yesterday may be wrong today; what seems powerful today may grow weak tomorrow. Read the past as a guide to what comes later, and in time its signs will become clear.

Looking back at antiquity from the present, turmoil was hardly confined to the age of Fuxi, the legendary ruler of remote antiquity. Even under Yao and Shun, who yielded the throne to worthy successors, the Four Fiends stirred up disorder. And when Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou took up arms, the two elders Boyi and Shuqi did indeed criticize them.

Even when Gaotao, the worthy minister of Shun, laid out strategies for governing the state, and when Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou offered admonitions, mistakes were still hard to avoid. It was like treating an illness by injuring the sinews and bones, only to damage the muscles as well. Benevolence and righteousness can easily be burdened by the pursuit of reputation and squeezed by the pursuit of profit.

The cycle between order and disorder is difficult to halt on its own, while changes in institutions merely adapt them to the times. Passing the throne to a worthy person rather than to one’s son can sow resentment between the worthy and the unworthy; passing it to one’s son rather than to a worthy person may bring calamity upon later generations.

At times the Miao people refused to obey orders; at others, the Youhu clan resisted the royal command. Sometimes Hou Yi and Han Zhuo set disorder in motion; sometimes Guan Shu and Cai Shu grew disloyal. Sometimes the people of Shang attacked the state of Ge; sometimes the people of Zhou attacked Li.

At times Tang of Shang decisively defeated Jie of Xia at Mingtiao; at others, King Wu of Zhou won by raising his banners at Muye. When Jie of Xia was imprisoned at Xia Tai, how could he have known that the sunlight there had once shone upon Tang of Shang as he raised his troops at Er? When King Wen of Zhou was imprisoned at Youli, how could he have known that the moonlight in his cell had once witnessed King Wu of Zhou cross Mengjin to set out on campaign?

King Li of Zhou fled to Zhi; King You of Zhou died at Mount Li; King Ping of Zhou moved the capital to Luoyi; and King Nan of Zhou met his defeat and downfall near the Yi River. The feudal lords sometimes forged an alliance at Shaoling and sometimes met in a gathering at Huangchi. At times they fought at Changan; at others, a ruler was assassinated at Qianxi. Sometimes they captured Yanying; sometimes they retreated to defend Kuaiji. At times a city was massacred at Daliang; at others, they invaded Linzi.

The Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period swallowed up one another’s territories, while the Seven Powers of the Warring States period waged war against one another. The powerful and violent Qin destroyed the six states, and then Chu and Han fought once more to decide the outcome. The sun hangs in the sky, and the land stretches boundlessly; places near and far all lie within it, and every direction across the four quarters falls within view.

The well-field system, which divided land into a neat grid of public and private fields, was once orderly and flourishing, yet weapons and armor continued to pile up. Later, fields were divided along the crisscrossing ridges and boundaries known as qianmo, and borders were then laid out around the countryside and the capital.

The First Emperor of Qin had weapons used to destroy all the books in the realm. He abolished the feudal states and established commanderies and counties to govern them. He strengthened the central government and weakened local powers, stationed large forces in Shang Commandery, and built the Great Wall and defensive trenches along the frontier.

He believed his empire secure and unchanging for ten thousand generations, as though he could turn the realm upside down with a flick of his hand, or sit on the palace steps and divide the land at will. He treated the people like ants, yet spent money as casually as scattering sand and mud.

The Epang Palace was still unfinished when the First Emperor’s carriage reached Xi. The convicts laboring at Mount Li had not yet been released when Chen She’s army rose in Qi County. Liu Bang was stationed at Bashang, harboring ambitions, while beneath the surface, tensions were already mounting at the Feast at Hongmen.

War engulfed Xianyang, and Han forces rallied at Nanzheng. Human and ghostly disorder mingled, while the winds and clouds seemed mournful. Xiang Yu was powerful, and Liu Bang had not yet prevailed; no one could then foresee who would ultimately rule the realm.

Liu Bang promulgated three articles of law, then incorporated the armies of five states. The court planned carefully, while Zhang Liang and others offered counsel from within the command tent. Around Guangwu, valiant soldiers fought in furious battle; on either side of the Honggou, both armies waited anxiously.

Liu Bang left Ji Xin at Xingyang, allowing himself to escape. At Gaixia, Consort Yu and Xiang Yu parted. Only then did the talents of the three outstanding strategists and generals Zhang Liang, Xiao He, and Han Xin fully come into play. The Han dynasty prospered, its fortune flourishing for a thousand years. The mountains and rivers remained magnificent, while a new radiance appeared between heaven and earth.

The Han dynasty inherited the orthodox calendar and unified the realm’s carriage tracks, writing, and institutions, ending the division of the four quarters into rival states. Even remote regions were brought under its governance through loose-rein administration, combining appeasement with restraint. Later, as imperial in-laws contended for power, the court established separate northern and southern commands.

Had there been no one to support the ruler and rescue the state from crisis, how could the realm have escaped collapse? A hundred years passed before order was restored. The armies advanced with overwhelming force, shaking the four quarters. Who could have foreseen that the disaster of the Witchcraft Affair, a court crisis in the Han dynasty sparked by accusations of sorcery, would erupt through Liu Quli?

Even when the prime minister directed the government, the situation remained deeply uncertain. To face danger and give one’s life in loyal service was to fulfill the grave charge of caring for an orphaned ruler. When treacherous men oppressed the young sovereign, they behaved with the cunning of foxes and wildcats.

They abused the widowed empress within the palace and pursued the young emperor through the halls. What struggles would soon engulf the realm? The crisis was already forming, like ice growing thicker. A breached embankment brings floods, but in controlling the waters, how could one forget the embankment’s purpose?

The Eastern Han was like a return of light. At the great battle of Kunyang, flying stones sent roof tiles scattering. Wang Mang’s Xin dynasty was shrouded in gloom and grief, and corpses lay strewn across the Terrace of Jian. At Hao, Han forces welcomed Liu Xiu back—the “high nose” alluding to Liu Xiu, a descendant of Liu Bang—and at Xin’an they crushed the Red Eyebrows.

The Han house prospered once more, and the court again saw Han robes and ceremonial rites. The Dou and Deng clans, imperial in-laws, interfered in government through their ties to empresses and consorts; the Yan and Liang clans seized control of the court by manipulating the female rulers. After the He clan took power, the Han state’s political fortunes were nearly spent; when the Dong clan came to dominate, the Han dynasty’s foundations fell into even deeper ruin.

In the Luoyang and Hanoi regions, cooking smoke was scarcely seen, and weeds and brambles overran the capital. The vast sky appeared once more, and the rites and institutions of the Han dynasty were restored. The Dou and Deng clans seized power through women of the imperial household, while the Yan and Liang clans interfered in court affairs through the empresses and consorts. They brought the Han dynasty’s achievements nearly to ruin; by the time of Dong Zhuo, they were utterly undone.

In the Luoyang and Hanoi regions, there was little smoke from cooking fires, and wild grasses choked the capital. Birds crossed the sky, but no one mourned the bones scattered on the ground. The city walls still had shrines to the city gods who guarded them, yet these needed to be rebuilt. There were no sheep left to bleed, nor could sacrificial animals be found.

When a towering building is about to collapse, a single beam cannot hold it up. Cao Mengde (Cao Cao) seized the initiative first; Sun Zhongmou (Sun Quan) relied on the legacy of his ancestors; Liu Xuande (Liu Bei), unable to fulfill his great ambition, could only weep and sigh in the end.

The Western Jin prized abstract discourse, while affairs of state were left suspended amid empty debate and judgments of character. Women held the court’s power, and calamities arose among members of the imperial clan. Two emperors endured the hardship of exile as the Five Hu peoples—the Xiongnu, Xianbei, Jie, Di, and Qiang, among others—invaded the Central Plains and threatened the Jin dynasty’s ancestral temples and state altars.

There was no one in the world with the talent of Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong, the renowned minister of Qi during the Spring and Autumn period), and this calls forth a profound sigh. Qiang warriors filled the broad avenues with the dust of battle, while the warhorses of the Hu peoples neighed across the Central Plains. Dragon-shaped light shone toward the Ox and Dipper constellations, and the sun’s shadow turned into a rainbow.

People cleared wasteland and settled by a bend in the Luo River, then cultivated fields along the banks of the Yangtze. The Eastern Jin and the Southern Dynasties lasted a total of 204 years, standing alongside the northern regimes. The Eastern Jin court held only a small territory in the south, where auspicious signs such as the lingzhi mushroom sometimes appeared.

After five changes of dynasty, the Chen dynasty was finally destroyed by the Sui. The capital fell beneath the dusk and western wind; its city lay abandoned, overgrown with spring grass. Only the vast, empty expanse of the Yangtze remained before the eye, and passersby could not keep their tears from wetting their clothes.

The Northern Wei rose in the north, and for a time Emperor Xiaowen worked to reform the government and bring stability to the realm. But the upheaval at Heyin soon followed, and the Northern Wei split into Eastern Wei and Western Wei. The Erzhu clan rose to power; later, the Gao clan replaced Eastern Wei, and the Yuwen clan destroyed Northern Qi.

Under the Sui, north and south were reunited, and all within the four seas came under the court’s rule. The excavation of the Bian Canal drained the resources of both government and people, while the campaigns against Liaodong exhausted the soldiers. Everyone grew weary of this life, and everyone sighed.

Rulers across the land proclaimed their own era names, and all longed to escape the turmoil of war. The Central Plains still had no true sovereign: who could see whose hands would ultimately hold the realm? The saying “hard to know the thousandth year” means that no one can predict when a wise ruler will appear. Yet Heaven’s will and the people’s hearts will, in the end, answer one another.

When a true dragon rises, clouds gather; when a fierce tiger strides, the winds grow sharp. Periods of empress dowager rule came one after another, and palace upheavals repeatedly followed. Alas, Huan Yan-fan, a chancellor under Emperor Zhongzong of Tang, failed to kill Wu Sansi in his day, and so left behind a lasting calamity.

Songs and dancing rang out in full revelry on Mount Xiu, while war drums sounded at Yuyang. In times of peace, was it wise to grow complacent and careless? In the end, all the blame was laid on Yang Guifei. The Sword Gate rose so high it seemed beyond the reach of sun and sky; when Tong Pass fell, even fierce generals and brave warriors could not stop the enemy.

Both capitals, Chang’an and Luoyang, were lost, and the ancestral temples nearly fell. When joy reaches its height, disaster follows; favor and affection can themselves invite calamity. Nothing could be undone. Looking around, who could compare?

From then on, the regional military governors grew powerful, and their subordinates showed no respect. Relying on their military achievements, they refused to attend court and used the suppression of rebels as an excuse. Each held troops to strengthen his own position. Who still cared for the declining royal house? They asked the court to indulge and accommodate them, while secretly watching to see whether the state would stand or fall. They seized cities and territory without acting on the sovereign’s orders, and plundered wealth to enrich themselves. At times the emperor was driven from place to place, and the escort accompanying him was often incomplete.

When the branches and trunk grow too large, they become difficult to control; however long the whip, it cannot direct troops and horses far away. Give free rein to the wicked, and trouble is sure to follow; raise a tiger, and it will leave disaster in its wake. How turbulent the fortunes of the realm became! The ruler felt shame and regret, but it was of no use.

When power was theirs, the blossoms flourished in brilliant profusion; once they lost it, leaves and branches withered and scattered. The Central Plain was divided among ten powerful houses, and five families took turns occupying the strategic passes. Though bright stars shone in the sky, dawn had yet to break in the east.

They had barely returned to Changlu Town when they were driven again to Huliu Slope. At the Battle of Jiangxiao, they brought the calamity of war upon themselves; how foolish the fire at Xuanwu! Surrender at Zhongdu was truly culpable, and the death at Luancheng was a cause for ridicule.

Taiyuan had only just been taken at dawn when Liu Zi heard cries of grief by evening. The situation shifted layer upon layer, and people’s loyalties kept changing. Even among the ashes, sparks may still lie hidden; even decayed bones are still called spirit tortoises.

Devious schemes often wound people in secret, and hardship and trouble are often brought on by one’s own actions. If one guards only the skin and flesh, it is easy to leave a gap; by the time a grave danger within is revealed and one tries to mend it, it is already too late. Calamity can arrive in an instant. To regret only after being injured is like biting one’s own navel after being bitten by a snake: it is too late.

A person may be on the verge of rising and then fall, or receive support just as they are about to plunge downward. Everyone detests the unpleasant medicine used to treat illness, while all people hope for days of health and peace. Only one who can remove a grave and stubborn disease deserves to be called a good physician.

The fields have long lain fallow, their soil poor and hard; the roads are difficult, steep, and rough. If no true ruler appears…

The fields lie abandoned, their soil barren and hard; the roads are rough and steep, difficult to travel. If no true ruler were to appear, how could we see circumstances turn around again? The state’s fortunes have reached an exceptionally difficult moment, and chances for ruler and ministers to meet and unite are few.

Heaven worked through human hands, and in the end laid the foundation of our Great Song. The ruler’s plans adapted to circumstances on every side, gradually bringing the situation under control; heroes from all quarters also looked eagerly toward the court and submitted. More than a hundred years have passed since then, and the people have not even witnessed warfare.

In the end, success and failure come down to Heaven’s mandate, while a state’s rise and fall are bound up with the times. Heaven’s workings cannot remain hidden forever, nor can outstanding statesmen exercise their talents forever. What happened in the past has become a trace; the histories of earlier dynasties can, in general, serve as a guide.

To observe these changes of rise and fall is like watching a game of strategy: scarcely a detail is out of place. Growth and decline turn with the course of Heaven; the changes of Yin-Yang are encompassed by the laws of the Great Dao. Good and ill fortune shift with human action, while the crucial point is knowing when to act and when to remain still.

Those who run too fast are apt to stumble first; plants that grow slowly may be the last to wither. Rather than clash with one another and leave both sides wounded, it is better for both to let go of their dispute. To catch fish, one uses a fish trap; to catch rabbits, a rabbit snare. These tools are meant to obtain fish and rabbits; once the catch is secured, there is no need to cling to the tools.

If someone obtains the tool but cannot let it go, it is like a sheep wearing a tiger’s skin: it may look fearsome, but in essence it is still a sheep. Laozi spoke of the Great Dao; Confucius lamented how hard it was to find people of talent. If one can grasp the principle of things as they first take shape, why fear losing one’s way while caught up in the midst of them?

How could gain and loss, black and white, stain the original mind? What is there in life and death to rely on or cling to? When the moment comes to act, one should do so naturally, as though one had forgotten all craft. It is like a sheep wearing a tiger’s skin: though its appearance has changed, its inner nature remains. The Great Dao is vast and can be heard from Laozi; people of talent are rare, as Confucius deeply lamented. If one can grasp the principle as things take shape, why fear losing one’s way while caught up in the midst of them?

How could gain and loss, black and white, stain the original mind? What is there in life and death to depend on? To respond to the right moment should be as precise as an arrow striking its target, as a blade cutting through without the slightest obstruction. Do not be startled by others’ mockery, nor worry that someone is secretly watching.

Once you understand the subtle workings of the Great Dao, why worry that the road has many branches? Move in the same direction as the Dao, and you will attain the Dao; follow what is inherent from the beginning, and Heaven’s Way will not oppose you. Investigate things to their depths, and you will fully understand human nature; give free rein to words, and through them you can express and release the thoughts in your heart.

By observing external things, one comes to know the simplicity of the Great Dao; by hearing all kinds of teachings, one comes to understand its quiet subtlety. The great broth, unseasoned, needs no further flavoring; the dark wine, clear water used in ancient rites, needs no further filtering. The finest way of waging war does not win through conquest; even the most ingenious calculations cannot exhaust the changes of Heaven’s Way.

The highest teaching cannot be fully conveyed in words, and an unbridled steed cannot be caught up with. Among brothers, affection is paramount; between father and son, loving-kindness is the foundation. The realm may be entrusted to a person of virtue, but this principle cannot be privately claimed.

Passing through Gong County and Sending This to Secretary Wu (First year of the Huangyou era, 1049 CE; Shao Yong at age thirty-nine)

A gentle breeze brushes Jade Creek, and its waters rise and ripple softly; a swift steed is hard to catch. Among brothers, affection is paramount; between father and son, loving-kindness is the foundation. The realm may be entrusted to a person of virtue, but this principle cannot be privately claimed.

Passing through Wen on my way to Wu, the Secretarial Commissioner and Magistrate of Gong County

The spring breeze was soft and gentle as I rode my horse, hazy with drink, through Wen. Blossoms in their full splendor cast shadows beside the grottoes, and pleasure boats drifted by, filled with song. We were close at hand, yet seemed as far apart as an immortal and a mortal, unable to spend this third month’s spring outing together.

Presenting “My New Home Is Complete” to Lord Liu Junyu, Court Inspector

My new home lies south of Lüdao Ward, where slender bamboo flanks the winding path and streams divide beneath the shade of green willows. Many worthy men have bought the quiet beauty of this place. I alone live here, and it suits me perfectly for cultivating my aspirations and finding peace.

To compare my circumstances with those of the Chen family would be presumptuous. And to say I might keep company with Yan Hui in his humble lane would still invite concern. Though sudden storms may rage fiercely, I do not believe they can overcome someone who, like Shen Yin-hou, holds firm and keeps himself in check.

Sent to Han Zihua, Gentleman of the Secretariat and Prefect of the Three Cities

Luoyang has been the capital for more than two thousand years. Every step seems to walk through the history recorded in the classics; wherever I look, the past and present are reflected all around me.

To the northwest, palaces rise high; to the southeast, mountains and rivers slope away. The Yi and Luo run clear, reflecting those who gaze into them; Mount Song and Shaoshi face the gate, bringing a chill. The finest waters and bamboo lie a little south of Lüdao Ward. Below them stands a secluded dwelling, reached by a narrow path to a brushwood gate.

My dwelling is hidden by weeds, and in ordinary days I fill my hunger with coarse fare such as lamb’s-quarters and bean leaves. The Yi and Luo run clear, reflecting those who gaze into them; Mount Song and Shaoshi send their chill to the gate. The finest waters and bamboo lie a little south of Lüdao Ward. Below them stands a secluded dwelling, reached by a narrow path to a brushwood gate. My dwelling is hidden by weeds; lamb’s-quarters and bean leaves are my daily fare. I support my parents above and care for my wife and children below, leaving the fullness or want of our life to fate.

Others think such a life unbearable, but it does not disturb my quiet mind. I read histories and grasp the principles behind rise and fall; I explore the classics and seek the roots of things.

A visitor said to me, “Why, of all things, do you fail to understand how to weigh the moment? The court is just and clear, ready to appoint able men; a wise ruler is seeking worthy ministers. Virtue and benevolence should not remain empty talk. Achievement lies in acting at the right time. Why not seek a prominent office?

“An official can enjoy the Son of Heaven’s stipend and rescue those who suffer. He can build a spacious residence beside the main road and own broad fields beyond the city. Gold and purple adorn the vermilion gates; strings and pipes fill the singing halls with music. Sturdy steeds line the stable, and beautiful women gather in the rear courtyard.

“On entering, he sits in a broad hall; on going out, he rides in a splendid carriage. His cap and sword gleam, and his bearing is calm and assured. He speaks grandly of affairs under Heaven, and everyone in the hall feels as though a clear sky has spread over them. No one dares raise their eyes to look at him; they hold their breath, waiting only for him to reveal his mood.”

This is what people call a man of strength: his aspirations can be seen in his words and actions. Why, then, should he torment himself until he looks withered and gaunt, like a thin, dried-up sturgeon?

When I speak of how the ancients conducted themselves, I take my lessons from the books handed down from earlier generations. I live beside a narrow ditch and find joy only in a few stalks of bamboo.

This is what people call an ordinary man. How could his integrity be worth comparing with mine? I can only answer my guest: some things are indeed hard to explain.

It is not that I enjoy wearing shabby clothes, nor that I dislike fine meat. Do I not know that the recluse, like a gourd hung up unused, serves no purpose? Do I not know how to refuse the task of holding the whip and driving a carriage? “Holding the whip” means driving for someone, and can also refer more generally to taking on menial work.

I only worry that others will see me grasping for a salary, with greed written all over my face. How could I forget the principle of knowing when enough is enough and guarding my own integrity? I can only answer my guest: some things are indeed hard to explain.

It is not that I enjoy wearing shabby clothes, nor that I dislike fine meat. Do I not know that the recluse, like a gourd hung up unused, serves no purpose? Do I not know how to refuse the task of holding the whip and driving a carriage? I only worry that others will see me grasping for a salary, with greed written all over my face. How could I forget the principle of knowing when enough is enough and guarding my own integrity?

Deep in the mountains, wave upon wave still rises; high on the peaks, summit after summit stands. To walk there as though on level ground is beyond most people. Poverty and low status are bitter to endure, while wealth and prominence can easily change a person’s resolve. To remain at ease amid such circumstances, as if nothing were amiss, is truly difficult.

When advancing, I hold fast to my principles; when withdrawing, I preserve my integrity. Since I have not yet personally experienced the other kind of circumstance, why should I be unable to maintain my conduct? I would not dare say that my guest’s words have nothing to recommend them.

Ah, this piece of jade came from Mount Jing. Although Bian He recognized it as a precious stone, the state of Chu did not acknowledge its worth. Times may prosper or decline; roads may be open or blocked; and the moment to advance or withdraw may come sooner or later. If one does not follow these principles, and the jade is ruined, who should bear the blame?

My principles have not yet been put into practice because the times are governed by Heaven. Recently I traveled through three cities and stayed there for a while. Local officials of good standing treated me with courtesy and invited me to join them. At times, we discussed principles on quiet evenings; at others, we went boating on the pond in the rear garden.

For several nights, literary gatherings and drinking parties brought endless delight. It was early October, with the first chill in the air, and the trees had not yet shed their last frost. After returning, I settled into my humble cottage and, beneath the bamboo window, slept off my wine in the sunshine. Grateful for the favor and recognition of a gentleman, I therefore wrote this poem on his behalf.

《Written in Reply to Zhang Yuanbo Zhicao’s “On the Last Day of the Year,” Using His Rhymes》 was composed in the first year of Jiayou (1056), when Shao Yong was forty-six. He also wrote: “At forty-six, I am ashamed, as old age comes on, to wither before the frost. I return to my humble cottage and sleep off my wine beneath the bamboo window in the sunshine. In gratitude for a gentleman’s recognition, I write this piece on his behalf.”

On New Year’s Eve, I happened to be forty-six years old. As the years advance, it is truly shameful to have no ability to show for them. The last days of winter are drawing to a close, and the New Year is about to arrive. Now I take little interest not only in fame and fortune, but also in the gains and losses of outward appearance. My hair is already more than half white; I let time urge me onward.

The prefectural office has sent over newly brewed wine, and flowers are blooming in the small garden of Lord Wang, the Court Academician. When will I be able to drink beneath the red trees? Even then, I fear such fine wine and lovely scenery would be out of place in the home of a country dweller like me.

More than a hundred flowering plants grow in my little garden. When spring comes, every kind of tree and flower puts forth new shoots. The Lord of Spring lends them his warm, gentle power, so the garden’s beauty is no less than that of the gardens of nobles and the wealthy.

In the morning, the white chrysanthemums are pale and refined, their petals holding a chill like frost; autumn is the season in which they flourish. They know they are white, but who cares about the fragrance they release in solitude? They are not resplendent like fine jade, yet they make one marvel: even snow seems to carry a scent. The white chrysanthemums float upon jade-like wine, as though their color blends with that of the white jade cups.

I am now forty-seven, and have only just become a father. Raising and teaching a child is indeed my duty. But whether you live long or briefly, and whether you are wise or foolish, depends on your own endowment and circumstances. If I live to seventy, I will still see you grow to twenty-five. I hope you will become a virtuous person, though I do not know whether Heaven will grant this wish.

If one serves in office throughout one’s life, one must accept one’s share of the storms and upheavals. The losses that come with official life are endless; how much is there to gain? Since I lack skill in the plans and policies of governing the world, I can at least preserve the nature I was born with. When there is wine in the cup, for now I will drink and sing.

I am forty-seven this year, just approaching the age of knowing Heaven’s mandate, fifty. I never imagined that Heaven had not cut off my line of descendants, and that I would become a father only at this age. I ask only that the family’s music and books may be passed down. How could I presume to hope for a thriving estate and a distinguished household? Such is the way of the world; why worry too much?

I lived in Luoyang for eight or nine years, yet had only two or three friends with whom I truly connected. When we met again, our hair was already white. Sitting together, we mostly talked of quiet and leisurely things.

The affairs of human life had long been silently ordained, and I had long grown familiar with the ways of the world and of human feeling. When we drink, do not press me to drink; let me sip slowly and enjoy the ease of being pleasantly tipsy.

I once imagined a life like Yan Hui’s, content with nothing more than a single bowl of rice, yet I do not even have two qing of farmland. My wholehearted devotion to serving the state has not yet found full expression, but my head is already white.

In the chill, the clouds look especially pale; the older the pines, the sturdier their trunks and branches. These past years I have grown lazier still, often thinking back to the mountains, forests, springs, and rocks of former days.

Written in Harmony with Zhang, Junior Secretary, on Returning to Luoyang

In those days I was a young traveler in the prime of life. Now that I have returned to Luoyang, I am an old man with white hair. A whole lifetime lies between today and then; how many rises and falls have passed in between?

Eight Poems on Tall Bamboo

There are more than a hundred tall bamboo stalks; I know quite well they grew here for me. When insight suddenly comes to mind, I often take advantage of a quiet moment to stroll beside the bamboo.

I am confident that I have not necessarily done all I could, and I know I may not yet have truly seen things through. Inwardly comparing myself with the ancients, I cannot help feeling ashamed.

Tall bamboo grows beside a clear stream. The small room is secluded and refined. Though it is still summer, the night dew and cool breeze already bring a hint of autumn.

The moon rises through the trees, and spring water flows beneath the steps. Who can understand the delight of this night? Its quiet spaciousness makes it hard to draw the mind away.

Tall bamboo is lovely in itself, all the more so when it grows beneath the drooping willows! A recluse has no official rank or carriage; to enjoy such a scene is already enough to make him glad.

If I must compromise my principles and lower my standards, I cannot do it. But if I must hide myself completely, what would be the point? If Jia Yi had understood this state of mind, perhaps he would not have wept so bitterly. Jia Sheng was another name for Jia Yi, a Western Han writer who grieved at being unrecognized for his talents.

Tall bamboo leans against tall bamboo, its green bringing a sense of deep quiet. A breeze comes now and then, and ten thousand leaves rustle together.

Even when the age is mired in corruption, those who understand the world can still see the plain truth. All things may seem empty and still, yet they hold a profound delight. Someone strolls before the steps—how quiet and at ease the mind becomes!

Tall bamboo is like a green banner; the willows are like canopies hanging low. The recluse has a room and a bed, and day and night he sits facing them.

When the house is quiet, the mind grows clear and open. A tranquil landscape brings joy to the heart, as though one had truly grasped its meaning. Better to follow what the heart loves than to lose one’s true nature.

Tall bamboo and parasol trees grow interlaced, making one realize with surprise that early autumn has arrived. The evening cool is especially pleasant, and just right for leafing through old books.

Pavilions by the pond, with their windows and beds, remain before one’s eyes by day and night.

When the house is quiet, the mind grows clear and open. A tranquil landscape brings joy to the heart, as though one had truly grasped its meaning. Better to follow what the heart loves than to lose one’s true nature.

Tall bamboo and parasol trees grow interlaced, making one realize with surprise that early autumn has arrived. The evening cool is especially pleasant, and just right for leafing through old books.

The pavilions by the pond bask in a gentle breeze, while the garden retains the traces of evening. If life offers pleasures such as these, why fuss over the tiniest gains and losses? “Zi and zhu” are minute units of weight, often used as a metaphor for the slightest profit or loss.

The tall bamboo rises dozens of feet, higher still than the blossoming branches. By day the brushwood gate stays shut, and all around one sees the clear green shadows of bamboo.

Living this way brings rest not only to the body; it also makes the mind peaceful and broad. Those who understand the pleasure of a quiet life can naturally find it equal to the joys of high ministers.

The tall bamboo stays evergreen through the winter and does not change its leaves until the fourth month. New shoots emerge as though putting an end to warfare; the bamboo sheaths fall away like armor being cast off.

The bamboo is slender and serene, truly a delight to behold. Walking around it, one finds oneself circling it several times without realizing. It is a pity that other plants make people waste hoes and spades tending them.

Some people are skilled at chess, and I have watched them play. As they calculate where to place their pieces, they seem to discern the patterns of creation; once the pieces are laid down, the subtle changes of things come to light. The desire to win has no end, and neither will yield in the effort to move first.

Each player regards himself as the host and his opponent as a guest. Though seated face to face, they regard one another as enemies, like barbarians. The prospect of gain or loss stirs their hearts, and their joy and anger show plainly on their faces. The power to kill or spare within the game seems to rest in their hands, while their choices are revealed in their expressions and gestures.

When carried to extremes, differences become as incompatible as ice and fire; when harmonized just right, they answer one another like the xun and chi, two flutes played together. If a sense of right and duty is weaker than the bond between friends, even husband and wife will struggle to understand each other’s hearts. Pearl-like thoughts well up from within the sleeves, while a writing style like dragons and serpents races through the mind.

Over a single banquet, one can devise plans for sturdy city defenses; behind the curtains, stratagems clash like swords and halberds, unfolding in secret. In broad daylight, it is as though spirits are being commanded; on level ground, dragons seem to coil. Across an empty river, thunderous clamor rises like hail, while over the broad land it is as if giant fish—the whales, a figure for powerful enemies—are being slain.

The alternation of cold and heat brings both ease and desolation; darkness and light conceal and displace each other in turn. Mountains and rivers spread in splendor across the earth, while stars gather around the celestial pivot, an instrument for observing the heavens or a cluster of stars. Seeing how the balance of victory and defeat shifts, one suddenly realizes that favor and disgrace can also reverse.

High and low can be set and adjusted, but repeated changes are hard to restrain. Once a person’s inner feelings and outward conduct part ways, benefit and harm cannot both be secured. Whether to hold back or act must depend on the moment; whether to take or relinquish is decided in an instant.

The clever may be injured by deceit, while the honest may suffer for being slow or stubborn. Truth and falsehood become mixed, and both status and substance are damaged. What one gains often becomes the source of loss; good fortune, too, may become a path to calamity.

When the Qian and Kun trigrams cross, they form Song, Conflict; when Li and Kan change, they form Kui, Estrangement. Bows and arrows clash, and words are used to slander and deceive one another. Has the world ever been without victory and defeat? Flourishing and decline have never ceased either.

What seemed right yesterday may look wrong today; what appears strong today may weaken tomorrow. Looking from antiquity toward later ages, one can ultimately discern signs of what is to come.

Looking from the present into antiquity, what one sees extends far beyond Fuxi, the legendary ruler of remote antiquity. Yao and Shun yielded the throne, yet the Four Malefactors still lingered in defiance. Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou raised their weapons against tyrants, while the two recluses Boyi and Shuqi openly criticized them.

Even with Gaoyao setting forth his plans, and Yi Yin and the Duke of Zhou offering their admonitions, it was still hard to avoid attending to one thing at the expense of another, like treating a bone fracture only to injure the flesh. Benevolence and righteousness may be undermined by the pursuit of reputation, while justice may be pushed aside by self-interest.

Disorder does not end of its own accord; change and continuity must be adapted to the times. If the throne is passed to a worthy person rather than a son, disputes arise over the distinction between worthy and unworthy. If it is passed to a son rather than a worthy person, descendants may inherit trouble.

At times the Miao people defied commands; at others, the Youhu clan resisted authority. Sometimes Hou Yi and Han Zhuo set calamity in motion; sometimes the Duke of Guan and the Duke of Cai sowed confusion. Sometimes Tang of Shang attacked the state of Ge; sometimes the Zhou people seized the opportunity to attack Li.

Some won battles at Mingtiao and returned in triumph, their armies shaking the ground; others seized victory at Muye by capturing the enemy’s banners. When Jie of Xia was imprisoned at Xia Tai, he once saw the bright sun; Tang of Shang, too, rose from Er. Who can say whether the moonlight Wen of Zhou saw while imprisoned at Youli also shone on his crossing of the Meng Ford and his campaign against Zhou?

King Li of Zhou fled to Zhi; King You of Zhou died at Mount Li; King Ping moved the capital to Luoyi; and King Nan met his downfall at Yi. Some feudal lords made an alliance at Shaoling, others met in covenant at Huangchi. Some fought at Chang’an, others assassinated their ruler at Qianxi. Some attacked Yan and Ying, while others retreated to defend Kuaiji. Some were massacred at Daliang; others invaded Linzi.

The Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period swallowed one another up, while the Seven Warring States of the Warring States period fought among themselves. The violent Qin destroyed the Six States, and the armies of Chu and Han fought to decide the outcome. The borders of the realm stretched east to where the sun rises and west to the farthest reaches. Lands near and far were drawn into its territory, and Qin controlled the world in every direction.

The well-field system had once been orderly and prosperous, and weapons and armor were piled high. Qin abolished the well-field system and introduced the crisscrossing field paths and boundaries, dividing the countryside from the capital region. It also destroyed weapons and burned the Odes, Documents, and other classic texts; abolished the feudal states and appointed commandery and county officials, strengthening the center and weakening local power; stationed heavy forces in Shangjun and built a Great Wall along the border.

Qin Shi Huang believed his state was as solid as a rock and would endure for ten thousand generations. He imagined he could turn the world with a mere gesture and distribute land to his ministers as casually as arranging things before a stairway. He treated the people like ants, yet spent money as though scattering sand.

The Epang Palace was not yet complete when the First Emperor’s progress reached Xi. The convicts at Mount Li had not yet been released when Chen She’s army rose in revolt on the frontier. Qin Shi Huang believed his state was secure and would last forever, and that he could easily command the world. He regarded human life as no more than that of ants and spent wealth like sand. The Epang Palace was still unfinished when the First Emperor’s carriage reached Xi; the convicts at Mount Li had not yet been freed when Chen She’s army rose in rebellion at Qi.

Liu Bang encamped at Bashang, with no small ambition; at the Feast at Hong Gate, Xiang Yu’s force was at its height. Flames of war rose in Xianyang, and Liu Bang rallied his troops at Nanzheng. Human hearts and spirits seemed entangled, while the winds and clouds turned bleak in unison. Xiang Yu was powerful, and Liu Bang had yet to prevail; who would ultimately seize the realm was still uncertain.

Liu Bang issued the “Three Articles of Law” and then won over the forces of five states. The court’s plans were meticulous, and the strategies devised in the military tents were superb. Near Guangwu, Xiang Yu’s warriors charged forward in fury; on both banks of the Hong Canal, Liu Bang’s troops stood poised like tigers and leopards.

At Xingyang, Ji Xin once gave his life in place of Liu Bang. At the Battle of Gaixia, Liu Bang parted from Xiang Yu’s beloved concubine, Consort Yu. Only then could the exceptional talents of Zhang Liang, Xiao He, and Han Xin come fully into their own, and the fortunes of the Han dynasty flourished for generations. The mountains and rivers remained majestic, while the sun and moon shone over a new age.

The Han dynasty inherited the calendar traditions of the three ancient dynasties—Xia, Shang, and Zhou. Its laws and commands, along with standard roads and a common script, reached across the realm, ending the division of the land into rival domains. Even remote regions were brought within the court’s governance and connections. Later, powerful imperial in-laws fought for control, the court split apart, and armies faced one another across the north and south.

At that time, there were no worthy ministers able to assist the ruler and rescue the state from crisis. How could the country have escaped collapse? It took a century for the Han to be restored to wholeness, and the might of its armies shook the realm. Who could have imagined that the Disaster of the Witchcraft Accusations—a palace injustice born of charges of sorcery—would bring such ruin, drawing even Chancellor Liu Quli into its grip?

When Huo Guang served as regent and directed the affairs of state, the prospect of reviving the Han still seemed distant and uncertain. At a moment of crisis, he dared to shoulder responsibility and did not betray the late emperor’s charge to care for the orphaned young ruler. When rebellious ministers bullied their child sovereign, they acted with the cunning of foxes and wildcats.

They oppressed the widowed empress within the palace and drove the young ruler from the hall. Where would the court’s internal struggles lead the state? The crisis was like ice about to freeze over; danger stood close at hand. A breach in a dike may bring a flood, but how can those who control the waters forget the dike?

When the Eastern Han rose again, the Battle of Kunyang sent tiled roofs flying with its shock. The dark troubles of Wang Mang’s Xin dynasty vanished like ghosts, and the Terrace of Jian was strewn with corpses. Liu Xiu was proclaimed emperor at Hao, then went on to crush the Red Eyebrows.

The Han flourished once more, and the ceremonial robes and regalia of the Han house reappeared. Yet the Dou and Deng clans wielded power through their ties to the palace, while the Yan and Liang clans interfered in government through their empresses. The Han dynasty’s foundations were nearly ruined; by the time of Dong Zhuo, they had collapsed altogether.

The lands around the Yellow River and Luo River were sparsely inhabited, and weeds grew thick around the capital. Birds occasionally crossed the vast sky, while the bones scattered across the land went unmourned. A city with a moat should be rebuilt; and though the sacrificial sheep had no blood, there were no sheep left to kill.

A great hall on the verge of collapse cannot be held up by a single beam. Cao Cao rose first, Sun Quan relied on his family’s inheritance, and Liu Bei could not fulfill his ambitions, left in the end with nothing but grief.

The Western Jin prized lofty conversation, entrusting the affairs of state to judgments of men’s character…

The Western Jin prized abstract discussion, so much so that affairs of state were decided by judging people and debating their reputations. Women wielded power at court, and calamity arose even among members of the imperial family. Two emperors endured the hardships of war and displacement, while the Five Hu peoples—groups who entered the Central Plains in the late Western Jin—invaded the heartland.

There was no talent like Guan Yiwu, the Spring and Autumn period statesman Guan Zhong, who helped Duke Huan of Qi establish his supremacy. The thought brings a profound sigh. Along the broad roads, dust from the Qiang armies filled the air; across the Central Plains, the neighing of Hu horses rang out. The radiance of a precious sword shot toward the stars Ox and Dipper, and in the sunlight, rainbow-colored beams appeared.

People reclaimed wasteland where the Luo River meets the Yellow River, and cultivated fields along the banks of the Yangtze. For 204 years, northern and southern regimes stood side by side, each developing in its own way. The Eastern Jin remained confined to the south, though auspicious signs sometimes appeared, like the sacred fungus of immortality.

After five changes of dynasty, the Chen fell and the Sui rose. The capital was lost beneath the western wind and evening gloom; the city lay desolate, overgrown with spring grass. Nothing remained in sight but the Yangtze. Travelers gazed at its waters, their tears soaking their clothes.

The Northern Wei rose in the north, and Emperor Xiaowen worked to reform government and stabilize the state. The Heyin Incident soon followed, and the Northern Wei split into the Eastern Wei and Western Wei. After the Erzhu clan rose to power, the Gao clan founded the Northern Qi; the Yuwen clan then destroyed it.

Only when the Sui absorbed the Chen was the realm unified again. Digging the Bian Canal drained public and private resources, while campaigns against Liaodong left the soldiers exhausted. Everyone felt weary and distressed; everyone sighed and complained.

Rulers across the land proclaimed new reign titles, and people everywhere feared that war would break out again. The Central Plains still had no true sovereign. Who could foresee to whom the realm would belong? No one could know when Heaven’s Mandate would shift; all that remained was to await the moment when Heaven’s will and human affairs came into alignment.

Everyone felt weary and distressed; everyone sighed and complained.

Rulers across the land proclaimed new reign titles, and people everywhere feared that war would break out again. The Central Plains still had no true sovereign. Who could foresee to whom the realm would belong? No one could know when Heaven’s Mandate would shift; all that remained was to await the moment when Heaven’s will and human affairs came into alignment.

When a true dragon rises, clouds and mist gather around it; when a fierce tiger strides forward, even the wind seems to turn cold. While the Empress Dowager ruled from court, one palace upheaval followed another. It is lamentable that Huan Yan fan failed to kill Wu Sansi and left trouble behind.

Songs and dances rang out around Xiuling, while drums of war sounded from Yuyang. Could anyone take an age of peace for granted? To blame all the calamity on Yang Guifei was futile. The Jian’ge Pass towered so high it seemed cut off from the sun and sky; when Tong Pass fell, enemy forces surged in like tigers and wolves.

Both capitals, Chang’an and Luoyang, were captured, and the imperial ancestral temples were toppled and destroyed. Joy at its height turns to sorrow; bonds of affection can also become a source of disaster. Nothing could now be undone. Looking in every direction, who was left to stand by one’s side?

From then on, the regional military governors grew powerful and scarcely observed the duties of ministers to the court. They relied on their military achievements to refuse attendance at court, while claiming they were setting out to suppress rebels. Each held troops and power for himself. Who still cared for the royal house as it steadily declined?

The court sought only to placate those powers and wait to see how the country’s fortunes would unfold. They seized cities and territory on their own authority, not at the sovereign’s command, and imposed harsh levies simply for their own gain. At times the emperor was forced to flee from place to place, and his escort was often incomplete.

When a power grows too large, it is like a tail too heavy to move; when authority extends too far, it cannot be directed by a single order. If wickedness is indulged, disaster will come sooner or later. To raise a tiger is to invite calamity. The country’s fate was tossed about in this way. Though the ruler felt shame and unease in his heart, nothing could be done.

When fortune arrives, blossoms flourish; when power declines, branches and leaves wither and fall. The Central Plain was once divided among powers bearing ten different surnames, while five houses took turns controlling the main routes. In the night sky, only the stars glittered; in the east, dawn had yet to break.

They had only just returned to Changlu when they were driven on to Huliu Slope. The troops at Jiangxiao brought disaster upon themselves; the fire at Xuanwu was foolish indeed. The surrender at Zhongdu left no escaping blame, while the death at Luancheng invited ridicule.

In the morning, people heard that Taiyuan had submitted; by evening, they heard Liu Zi weeping. Events shifted in layer upon layer, and people’s loyalties changed just as quickly. Even among the ashes, a spark may still smolder; even a decayed bone may yet be treated as a sacred object for divination.

Malice and deceit often wound people in secret, while hardship and distress always find their way back to those who cause them. It is easy to guard against a minor outward injury; once a grave danger takes root within, it is too late to mend matters. Disaster can strike as soon as it is spoken of. To regret an injury only after it has been suffered is like wasting one’s strength trying in vain to bite one’s own navel.

What is about to rise may instead fall; what seems on the verge of collapse may yet find support. Everyone detests medicine that causes pain in treating illness, yet all hope for a life of health and peace. Only one who can cure grave illness deserves to be called a good physician.

The fields had long lain fallow, their soil barren and hard, and the roads were steep and difficult to travel. Without the advent of a true ruler, how could anyone have seen the situation turn around? The country’s fortunes had reached an extreme of turmoil, and the chance for ruler and ministers to meet and serve together was rare.

Heaven worked through human hands, and so our Great Song was able to establish its foundations. The ruler’s plans unfolded in response to the times, and heroes from every region turned toward him in allegiance. More than a hundred years have passed since then, and the people have almost forgotten what war feels like.

In the end, success and failure rest with Heaven’s Mandate, while rise and fall depend on the times. Heaven’s workings cannot remain hidden forever, and those skilled in governing will not always be denied the chance to act. The past has become history; the records left by those who came before can, in broad outline, serve as a guide.

Compared with a game of chess, the differences between the two sides are so slight as to be almost imperceptible. The waxing and waning of things follows the movements of Heaven, and the Dao of Yin-Yang encompasses all things. A person’s fortune and misfortune emerge as circumstances change; the key to events lies in movement and stillness.

Those who rush too far ahead are likely to stumble first; things that grow slowly and flourish often wither only later. Rather than associate with one another and bring each other harm, both sides would do better to let go of their attachments. To catch fish, one uses a fish trap; to catch rabbits, a net. Once the fish or rabbit has been caught, one should not cling to the tool.

To gain something and then be unable to forget it is like a sheep wearing a tiger’s skin: it looks like a tiger on the outside, but remains a sheep within. The Great Dao is vast; one can understand it by listening to Laozi. Talented people are rare; one can see this by considering Confucius. Once things take shape, one can grasp their meaning for oneself. When already caught up in the situation, why worry about losing one’s way?

How could gain and loss, black and white, stain the original mind? What is there in life and death worth relying on or clinging to? Respond to the moment with the accuracy of an arrow striking its target; handle affairs with the ease of a blade passing through an opening. Do not be startled by other people’s ridicule, nor feel the need to guard against those who watch in secret.

Once you understand the subtle art of application, why worry about roads dividing? To accord with the Dao is to attain the Dao; follow what is inherent from the beginning, and you will naturally not go against the Way of Heaven. Investigate things to their depths and bring your nature fully to expression. Speak frankly and plainly, like an arrow striking its target or a blade sweeping through an opening, without obstruction. Pay no mind to others’ laughter, and do not be wary of hidden watchers.

Once you understand the subtle art of application, why worry about roads dividing? To accord with the Dao is to attain the Dao; follow what is inherent from the beginning, and you will naturally not go against the Way of Heaven. Investigate things to their depths to bring your nature fully to expression; speak frankly, then shape your words into writing.

By observing the things around us, we come to appreciate simplicity; by hearing ordinary sounds, we understand the meaning of rare and silent tones. The great soup, unseasoned meat broth, needs no further seasoning, and dark wine, which in ancient rites symbolized clear water, needs no further dilution. The highest art of warfare does not lie in launching a campaign; even ingenious calculations cannot exhaust the workings of Heaven.

The truths of those truly skilled in speaking are, paradoxically, difficult to express fully in words. Once a galloping horse and carriage have passed, they cannot be brought back. Between brothers, love is paramount; between father and son, kindness is the foundation. All things under Heaven may be handed on to others, but this work alone cannot be claimed as private property.

Passing through Wen and sending this to County Magistrate Wu Mi, Assistant Director of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices in Gong County (1049 CE, the first year of the Huangyou era; Shao Yong aged thirty-nine)

A gentle breeze brushes Yuxi; a tipsy rider moves slowly along. Flowers bloom beside the stone grotto, while a singing boat drifts across the water. We are no more than a short distance apart, yet it is as if we were separated between the immortal and mortal realms, unable to join one another on this spring outing in the third month.

Presented to Liu Junyu, Court Censor, after the new residence was completed

South of Lüdao Ward, a long path winds between the bamboo; beneath the shade of green willows, the stream divides into several branches. A group of worthy men bought this secluded beauty. I alone live here, using it to settle my mind and pass the years.

The lines “Compared with the Chen family’s residence, it is indeed presumptuous; if it could rival Yan Hui’s humble lane, that too would be…” are incomplete in the original. The surviving text means roughly: “Compared with the Chen family’s residence, the new home would indeed seem presumptuous; if it could stand alongside the humble lane where Yan Hui lived, that would also be…” The remainder is missing.

Compared with the talented men of the Chen family, I would be wildly overestimating myself. Even if I could live in a humble lane like Yan Hui, there would still be cause for concern. Though sudden storms may rage fiercely, I cannot believe they will bring down Shen Yinhou, the Liang-dynasty writer Shen Yue.

Written to Han Zihua, Secretary and Prefect of the Three Cities

Luoyang has been a capital for more than two thousand years. With every step, it seems I have entered the world recorded in ancient books; wherever I look, I seem to stand between past and present.

Palaces rise high to the northwest, while mountains and rivers roll across the southeast. The Yi and Luo rivers run clear and bright, reflecting those who pass by. Mount Song and Shaoshi Mountain face the doorway, bringing a crisp chill.

I live in a corner south of Lüdao Lane, where the water and bamboo are at their finest. There is a quiet house there, reached by a narrow path that leads to a brushwood gate.

Mugwort and weeds grow thick beside the house, and my daily meals are humble fare, such as lamb’s-quarters and bean leaves. I have parents to support and a wife and children to care for, so I make do according to the means at hand.

Others may find such a life unbearable, but I am content with it and have never changed. Reading history has taught me how dynasties rise and fall; studying the classics has helped me find the roots of things.

A visitor said to me, “Why do you fail to understand how to adapt? The court is now well governed and able to appoint capable men; the enlightened ruler is seeking worthy officials.

Virtue and benevolence cannot remain empty talk. Success depends on acting in good time. Why don’t you seek a fine official post?

As an official, you can draw a stipend from the Son of Heaven and help people in hardship. You can build a spacious mansion beside the main road and acquire broad fields near the city walls.

Your vermilion gate will be adorned with splendid gold and purple; music will fill your pavilions. Sturdy steeds will line the outer stables, and young, beautiful women will gather in the rear courtyard.

At home, you will sit in a broad, bright hall; when you go out, you will ride in a splendid carriage. Your cap and sword will gleam, and your manner will be calm and composed.

You will speak grandly of affairs of state, while the guests around you listen with delight, as though sunlight were circling the room. No one will dare look you straight in the face; they will hold their breath and wait for your expression.

That is what is called a great man. Such a life shows what ambition can achieve. Why choose hardship for yourself and make yourself like a gaunt fish?

Yet you talk about the deeds of the ancients and pore over books left by earlier generations. You guard a ditch and cherish a few stalks of bamboo.

That is the life of an ordinary man. Why should anyone admire your integrity?”

I ventured to answer the visitor: “Some things are truly hard to explain. It is not that I like wearing threadbare clothes or dislike fine food. Surely I know that a gourd can be put to use when tied with a cord, and that driving a carriage for someone can be a way to earn a living. Yet I firmly declined.”

Thinking of the greedy craving for pleasure expressed in “gorging at the feast,” I dare not forget what the Hexagram of Grace says about living quietly in a mountain garden and holding fast to simplicity. Deep waters rise and fall in layer upon layer; lofty mountains soar in tier upon tier.

If one can regard these circumstances as ordinary, as level ground beneath one’s feet, then there is nothing to fear. Poverty and low status bring the greatest hardship, while wealth and honor can easily change one’s resolve.

To remain calm and undisturbed in every circumstance is truly difficult. In favorable times, hold fast to your Dao; in retreat, cultivate yourself and preserve your De.

Since I have not yet experienced a change of circumstances, how can I fail to stand firm? I would not say that the guest’s words have no merit at all.

Alas, how things change!

To remain calm and undisturbed in every circumstance is truly difficult. In favorable times, hold fast to your Dao; in retreat, cultivate yourself and preserve your De.

Since I have not yet experienced a change of circumstances, how can I fail to stand firm? I would not say that the guest’s words have no merit at all.

Ah, fine jade, found on Mount Jing! Although He Shi recognized it as a precious jade, the state of Chu never truly acknowledged it.

The world rises and falls; paths bend and straighten; there is a time for advancing and a time for withdrawing. If one does not follow this principle, and the jade is destroyed, whom can one blame?

The Dao has not yet been put into practice because one’s fate rests with Heaven. Recently I traveled through three cities and have stayed here for the time being.

The eminent ministers of our age have treated me with exceptional courtesy. At times, on quiet nights, we discuss the Dao; at others, we take a boat on the pond in the rear garden.

For several nights we held gatherings of poetry and wine, with endless delight. In the tenth month, the first chill has come, though the time when frost covers all the leaves has not yet arrived.

On my return, I settled in a humble little house and, by the bamboo window, lay drunk beneath the clear sky. Grateful for the gentleman’s esteem, I have written this poem on his behalf.

A poem composed in response, following the rhymes of Zhang Yuanbo’s “New Year’s Eve.” First year of Jiayou (1056; Shao Yong, aged forty-six).

Now I have reached the age of forty-six. As the years advance, I am ashamed of my lack of ability. The bitter cold at year’s end has just passed, and the new spring is about to arrive.

I have not only forgotten fame and fortune; I have long ceased to care for my body and form. My hair is already more than half white, and I let time hurry on.

Thanks to Prefect Zheng and Academician Wang for the gift of wine

Fine new wine has arrived from the imposing government residence, while lovely flowers bloom in the quiet little garden. When will we drink beneath the red trees? Then I shall be startled to realize that such warm hospitality and beautiful scenery are out of keeping with the humble home of a country man like me.

Spring in the Little Garden

In the secluded little garden, hundreds of flowering trees and plants each put forth new red or purple shoots. The Spirit of Spring…

The residence has sent newly brewed wine, and the little garden is dense with flowering plants. When will I be able to drink beneath the red trees? Then I will still be astonished that such an elegant scene could be found in a place where a rustic like me lives.

Spring in the Little Garden

The little garden is planted with hundreds of flowering trees and plants. Each puts out new shoots, and gradually red and purple blossoms appear. The Spring Lord, Dongjun, lends them the warm and gentle power of spring, so the garden’s scenery is in no way inferior to the gardens of nobles and high officials.

Written in Reply to Zhang, Second Junior Secretary, on White Chrysanthemums

The elegant white chrysanthemums, beaded with frost and dew at dawn, are just right for autumn. They know their own purity, but who will cherish the fragrance they release in solitude?

Could the white chrysanthemum seem less radiant because it resembles fine jade? And why should anyone be surprised that snow, too, has a fragrance? White petals float in wine like liquid jade; flower and wine blend in color, as though reflected in a cup carved from precious stone.

A Song on Having a Son (composed in 1057, the second year of the Jiayou era, when Shao Yong was forty-seven)

I am forty-seven now, and only at this age have I had a son and become a father. The responsibility for raising and teaching him is certainly mine; but whether his life will be long or short, and whether he will be wise or foolish, is not for me to decide.

If I live to seventy, the son before me will then be twenty-five. I hope he will become a virtuous man, yet I do not know whether Heaven’s will will fulfill my hopes.

Four Poems for Quiet Reflection (composed in 1057, the second year of the Jiayou era)

If you spend your life in office, you must constantly contend with the turmoil of the official world. The harm you suffer is beyond reckoning; how much good can you possibly gain?

Since I am unsuited to managing worldly affairs, at least I can preserve peace of mind and body. When there is wine in the jar, I may as well drink and sing for a while.

I am forty-seven this year, just reaching the age of knowing Heaven’s mandate—since the ancients called fifty the age of knowing one’s destiny. I never expected Heaven would not cut off my line, and that I would only now become a father.

At least I need not give away my zither and books; I can still preserve peace of mind and body. When there is wine in the jar, I may as well drink and sing for a while.

I am forty-seven this year, just reaching the age of knowing Heaven’s mandate. I never expected Heaven would not cut off my line, and that I would only now become a father.

At least I need not give away my zither and books. As for building a distinguished family legacy, I would not dare hope for that. Most things in the world are much the same; why worry and fear too much?

I have lived in Luoyang for eight or nine years, yet have only two or three friends with whom I can truly share my heart. When we meet, our hair is already white, and most of the time we sit together making idle conversation.

Human affairs seem to have been settled long ago in the unseen order of things, and I have long grown familiar with the ways of the world. When I drink, do not urge me on. Let me drink slowly, so I can enjoy a gentle tipsiness at ease.

I wanted to live happily in poverty, like Yan Hui, yet I do not even have two qing of farmland. My sincere devotion has not been enough to move Heaven, while my head is already full of white hair.

The cloudlike mists carry a chill and seem especially pale and still; the older the pine trees, the more steadfast their nature. Lately I have grown increasingly indolent, often recalling the mountains, woods, springs, and streams where I once lived.

In Harmony with Zhang, the Second Junior Secretary, on Returning to Luoyang

In those days I was still a young traveler; now I have returned to Luoyang as an old man with white hair. A lifetime lies between then and now. Through all those years, I have witnessed many changes of fortune and decline.

Eight Poems on Tall Bamboo

There are more than a hundred stalks of tall bamboo. I naturally know they seem to have grown for me. Whenever I suddenly grasp some insight, I often take an unhurried walk around the grove.

I believe my resolve may not be firm enough, and I know that I may not truly understand. Inwardly comparing myself with the ancients, I cannot help feeling ashamed.

The tall bamboo grows beside a clear channel, and the little waterside pavilion, built to take in the view, feels secluded too. Though it is still summer, the breeze and dew already carry a hint of autumn.

Moonlight rises through the trees, and spring water flows beneath the steps. Who can understand the feelings of this night? They stretch far into the distance, impossible to contain.

Tall bamboo is lovely indeed—especially when it grows beneath drooping willows! A person in seclusion has neither office nor the life of the nobility. To enjoy such a scene is more than enough to bring delight.

I cannot bend myself to accommodate others. And what is there to envy in trying to take everything into my own hands? If Jia Yi, the Han-dynasty writer who wept bitterly over the state of affairs, understood this feeling, perhaps he too would cease his grieving.

The tall bamboo stands green and close together, naturally giving off a serene, secluded air. A breeze comes now and then, and all the leaves sound together.

Even amid a corrupt age, one can grasp the principle of openness and ease; even in things that are still and empty, there is profound meaning. How calm and peaceful is the mind of one who strolls before the steps!

The tall bamboo is like a blue-green curtain, and the emerald willows like canopies drooping overhead. The recluse has a pavilion and a couch, and keeps them close by day and night.

When all around is quiet, the spirit unfolds; when the surroundings are graceful and unhurried, it is easier to feel the joy of what is true. Better to follow the life one cherishes than to lose one’s own nature.

Tall bamboo grows interwoven with lofty paulownia trees, and suddenly I realize that early autumn has arrived. The cool of evening is especially welcome; it is just the right time to take out old books and read.

A gentle breeze stirs among the ponds and pavilions, while the garden still holds the colors of evening. If life offers pleasures like these, why fuss over small gains and losses?

The tall bamboo rises dozens of feet, standing above the flowering plants. By day, the wooden gate stays shut; all that meets the eye is a quiet, lush green.

This brings ease not only to the body but also peace and breadth to the mind. Once you know the pleasure of living in quiet retirement, it naturally seems worth more than high office.

The tall bamboo stays green through winter and does not shed its leaves until the fourth month. New shoots emerge, as if bringing an end to war; the bamboo sheaths fall away, as though armor had been cast off.

The bamboo is serene and upright, truly a delight to behold. I walk around it again and again, unaware that I have made several circuits. What a pity that other plants merely consume the hoe and spade needed to tend them.

“Troops bring calamity upon themselves”: military disaster is self-inflicted. The Biheng edition reads “together they seek their own eyes,” while the Siku Quanshu edition reads “together they seek their own sun.”

“Constantly suffer calamity oneself”: one often brings misfortune upon oneself. The Siku Quanshu edition reads “constantly live in fear,” meaning to be frequently troubled by apprehension.

“The world looks up together”: people everywhere look up in admiration. The Biheng and Siku Quanshu editions read “the world shines together.”

The Biheng and Siku Quanshu editions read, “If compared with the Chen family, one has made oneself an impostor.”

The Biheng and Siku Quanshu editions read, “At the end of the year, the seasonal calendar turns.”

The Biheng and Siku Quanshu editions read, “On this day, drink beneath the red trees.”

The Biheng and Siku Quanshu editions read, “I was originally forty-five years old,” with the note, “This is incorrect.”

Drinking on an Autumn Day in the Song Family Garden at Zhengzhou, for Registrar Zhou Zhengshu of Guancheng

Zhengzhou lies four hundred li from another capital. Between them stands a famous garden belonging to the Song family. Ancient trees tower into the clouds, their dense branches like a forest of swords and halberds. Long vines trail to the ground, winding and twisting like roaming dragons and snakes.

I came to visit the garden in late autumn, and you hosted a banquet for me among flowers blooming in the evening. After the feast ended, fine rain fell outside the bamboo pavilion. At daybreak, I set out on my homeward journey, startling the roosting crows.

Returning on the Double Ninth Festival to My Former Home at Baiyuan in Gongcheng

To meet the Double Ninth Festival in my native place, and climb high for a distant view, yet feel only sorrow. The mountains, rivers, and scenery seem separated from me by a dream. After ten years away, I have at last had another chance to admire the moonlight and evening breeze here.

White hairs now mingle with the newly grown strands at my temples, while yellow chrysanthemums still twine beside the old fence. Surely the people of my hometown will laugh at me: a promising man returning home in splendid robes, yet with his head already full of white hair.

Passing Through Shan, Third Year of Jiayou

How illustrious was the moral radiance of my ancestors! The “Two Nan” poems of the Zhou dynasty belonged to two different regions.

How illustrious our ancestors were: the Duke of Zhou, Dan, and the Duke of Shao, Shi, governed the northern and southern regions of Zhou. The Duke of Zhou helped establish the Zhou dynasty, served as Grand Protector, and was enfeoffed in Shaan, where he assisted King Cheng.

So much time has passed that even the mountains and rivers seem vast and remote. Though we descendants have not lived up to our forebears, we still remember the story of how they planted sweet crabapple trees and left behind benevolent governance.

Inscribed on the Yellow River

Who says the Yellow River brings more benefit than harm? I see it muddy year after year, never truly clear. It rises in the west at the Kunlun Mountains and flows east into the sea. Along the way, who knows how many voices of grievance it has heard?

Passing through Tong Pass

When the realm is in turmoil, the passes are held under strict guard; when peace prevails, their defenses are more relaxed. Though natural barriers can be used for defense, how could righteousness and virtue be seized in the same way?

I do not understand the deeper meaning of “one in a thousand”; it is only hearsay that Tong Pass is “impregnable with a hundred men.” “One in a thousand” and “impregnable with a hundred men” were expressions used by the ancients when discussing the timing of Heaven, the lay of the land, and the strength of mountain passes. The frontier regions are no longer cut off from the world, so why rely on the crowing of a rooster to announce that the gate has opened?

Inscribed on Mount Hua

There are five sacred peaks in the realm, and the state offers sacrifices to them at appointed times. Mount Hua is one of them, rising majestically in the west and guarding its region.

In the Tang dynasty, Mount Hua was once called the “King of Golden Heaven”; today it is titled the “Sovereign Who Follows the Sage.” Alas, its divinity seems so exalted that it oversteps its proper rank, placing itself on a level with Heaven and Earth.

Lodging at Huaqing Palace

In the sixth year of the Tianbao era, Emperor Xuanzong of Tang built a palace beside the hot springs. From then on, he and Yang Guifei came here each year on pleasure visits.

The Zige Peak is bathed in a cool breeze, and the layered mountain ridges reflect the bright moonlight. Alas, the pair of stone urns still lets fragrant hot water trickle forth.

Climbing Chaoyuan Pavilion

The Xiuling ridge rises steeply, its peaks stacked one above another, while the mountain road winds through nineteen bends. After the rain, the landscape is hazy; Chaoyuan Pavilion appears far away among the clouds.

The golden carriage once ridden by emperors has long since departed, and the jade statues left behind have fallen into ruin. Standing here today and gazing toward the Wei River, one can still see Chang’an.

Written on the Road to Chang’an

How can one walk the road to Chang’an without weeping in sorrow? The ancients once traveled this road; now it is we who walk along it. In every season, by day and by night, carts and horses come and go without pause, their wheels rumbling and hooves clattering.

The people of this land truly have a hard life: when it rains, the roads turn to mud; when the wind blows, dust fills the air. Mud and dust alternate again and again—who knows how many times? In heavy rain and strong winds, people cannot even leave their homes.

Inscribed at the Shrine of the Marquis of Liu

Zhang Liang brought about Xiang Yu’s defeat and helped Liu Bang establish the Han dynasty as if with a turn of the hand. The fall of Qin and the rise of Han were like moves in a game of chess. He once sat down to plan the affairs of the realm; he also tempered his mind through self-cultivation and fasting, abstaining from food in pursuit of health and spiritual practice.

Han Xin put the military strategies taught by Huang Shigong into practice on the battlefield. If so, why did he still need to keep company with Chisongzi and learn to withdraw from the world and live in seclusion? Few throughout history could compare with someone like Han Xin, who possessed both talent and great achievements.

Han Xin alone was plotting rebellion and, in principle, deserved execution. But wiping out all three of his clans—the paternal, maternal, and marital families as well—seems excessively harsh. At that time, the Han dynasty had only just begun to govern by combining the Kingly Way with the Way of Hegemony. Xiao He, as a senior minister who assisted the ruler, was probably not yet among the most highly honored figures.

Han Xin held military power and had rendered great service; he was not without strategic insight. Yet he also coveted the title of king, which makes him seem quite foolish. He helped establish the great Han dynasty, which endured for four hundred years, and had only just brought peace to the realm when he himself was put to death.

Since Han Xin was fortunate enough to encounter a true ruler, why did he need to make himself a false king—an acting king—in order to achieve his ambitions? Who says his troubles began only with this? He should not have turned around and blamed Emperor Gaozu of Han.

For a time, Han Xin became Liu Bang’s most capable subordinate. For centuries, Xiao He has been regarded as a minister who helped bring about hegemony. Both men committed offenses against the moral order and traditional norms. Even so, Xiao He’s guilt did not compare with Han Xin’s.

Han Xin served Liu Bang without divided loyalties. Xiao He, confused by the shifting circumstances of the Han court, nevertheless grew suspicious of him. Had Han Xin followed Kuai Tong’s advice at the time, it would be hard to say whether Emperor Gaozu’s achievements could have been realized.

Han Xin possessed talent and wisdom, yet when faced with decisions that determined life or death, advance or retreat, he ultimately failed to choose wisely. The misty waters of the Five Lakes remain, but Fan Li—the man who retired after success and sailed across those lakes—has had no successor.

Without Han Xin, it would have been difficult to defeat Xiang Yu; without Xiao He, it would have been difficult to subdue Han Xin. People everywhere should understand that great achievements cannot rest on one person alone. Had Emperor Gaozu of Han not employed Xiao He, he too would have struggled to accomplish anything.

Once the Han dynasty’s foundations were secure, the court began discussing how to rank those who had rendered service. Five men of different surnames were enfeoffed as kings. Among them, Han Xin, the Marquis of Huaiyin, was the most outstanding. Yet he dared, after the Han dynasty had secured its foundations, to build a force as formidable as Qin, capable of threatening the Han imperial house.

Han Xin relied on his achievements but lacked far-reaching foresight. Emperor Gaozu of Han failed to reward his service, yet still used his power to protect himself. Once he had resolved to imprison and capture Han Xin for execution, it would not have been difficult to find grounds to condemn him.

A person who rises suddenly to prominence may soon suffer disgrace; one who has tasted many joys will often face many sorrows. After achieving success and renown, if one can humbly yield the seals of a prince and lord, one’s descendants may still be landed nobles for generations.

“What I Saw While Writing on the Prefectural Tower at Fengzhou”

Willows droop their green branches; the wind stirs them as though a carriage canopy were dancing in flight. I climb the tall tower, my thoughts without end, and spend the day at ease, gazing at the scene before me.

When the birds have flown away, the woods seem empty and still; drifting clouds do not obscure the outlines of the mountains. My thoughts follow a pair of swallows on their return, while my heart seems to commune with a lone wild goose.

The evening horn sounds intermittently, and the layered cliffs shift between light and shadow. The setting sun hangs, faintly red, while fine ripples rise on the distant water.

In the cold, the mist-covered ridges appear deep and dense, and the capital seems beyond the edge of the sky. Why does one who has long lived far from home feel such sorrow? I gaze eastward, leaning on the railing, overwhelmed by grief.

“Returning from Fengzhou to Qinchuan Station, I Send This to the Two Gentlemen Xue and Yao, the Deputy Prefects”

Looking back, our ninety days of joyful company seem like a dream. The bright moon and clear river are still here, but I can no longer share with you the gatherings in the eastern pavilion.

“In Thanks to Zhang Yuanbo of the Western Terrace for Sending a Poem in the Snow”

In Luoyang, snowflakes are as large as palms. There is no fire in the stove, and no wine in the cup. At dawn, someone knocks at the door, bringing a poem from Zhang Yuanbo of the Western Terrace.

“Seeing Off Zhang, Assistant Magistrate of Yishi”

To make a living in office, one often has to travel thousands of miles; leaving one’s parents and family at home is bound to weigh on the heart. Remember that the roc’s far journey begins from this very moment. The road ahead is perilous, so conduct yourself with care and sound judgment.

“A New Year’s Reflections,” Jiayou Year Five (1060; Shao Yong, aged fifty)

Qu Yuan reached the age of fifty before realizing how many mistakes he had made in the preceding forty-nine years; Master Ni, Confucius, continued studying the Classic of Changes even in his later years. Such, by and large, is the way of human affairs. How could Heaven’s intent be without cause?

Managing affairs leaves me increasingly weary, and my resolve to withdraw to the mountains and forests grows ever firmer. Who shares my aspirations and will stay with me in the Yichuan region until the end of our days?

“Five Poems on a Spring Outing”

Plum blossoms in the Five Ridges open in the twelfth month; in the region of the Three Rivers, the first month is just the time to admire winter plum blossoms. The north and south lie thousands of miles apart, yet the southern plum blossoms open a month earlier. Only then do I understand that news of spring comes from the south.

Who knows who played that lovely tune on a Qiang flute? All day long, the fragrance of plum blossoms seems to drift into my wine cup. I imagine that those who are far away at the ends of the earth and have yet to return, too, linger for a long while before the scene before them.

Luoyang is filled with boundless spring, and the scenery east of the city is especially delightful. A gentle breeze stirs a thousand willow trees. Ripples shimmer across the water, reflecting flowers that crowd along half the river.

Kingfishers skim the level banks beneath a clear, hazy sky. Surely the wanderer far away at the edge of the world, still not home, would linger for a long time before such a spring scene.

Luoyang is filled with boundless spring, and the scenery east of the city is especially delightful. A gentle breeze stirs a thousand willow trees. Ripples shimmer across the water, reflecting flowers that crowd along half the river. Beneath the clear sky, kingfishers fly over the level banks; in the warmth of the sun, mandarin ducks settle on the shallow sand. The sovereign has not traveled west to this place for a long time. Visitors can only lament that their temples are growing ever grayer.

February is the height of spring’s splendor, yet the sovereign’s carriage has not arrived—“emerald canopy” refers to the imperial cortege—and spring itself seems to have lost its support. I wander beneath the green willows in search of blossoms, then return, slightly tipsy, from where the fragrance of red apricot blossoms drifts.

A few fallen petals chase butterflies in flight. The slanting sun shines on a bamboo pole as an oriole sings. Wine fills the cup, and my loving mother is glad; I can still play before the steps in colorful clothes, amusing her. This alludes to Laolaizi, who entertained his parents by dressing in bright clothes, and evokes the poet’s joy in serving his mother.

Among the festivals of this world, the Cold Food Festival is the loveliest; among the celebrated gardens under heaven, those of Luoyang are the most renowned. Warmth fills the Golden Valley Garden, the estate of Shi Chong of the Western Jin, where pavilion-like halls gleam with green. Near the Bronze Camels, a neighborhood of Luoyang, clear sunlight illuminates splendid garments.

Fine willow branches droop to the ground beside the bridge, and a swing peeks halfway over the wall beyond the flower beds. A white horse trots lightly across grass trimmed as evenly as shears. I have wandered here to my heart’s content for more than ten years.

In the third month, peonies bloom in profusion, and drums sound everywhere among the pavilions and towers. The women in their carriages chat and laugh with ease, while people below come and go to watch. Layered greenery and shimmering water reflect the curtains; the fragrance of flowers drifts into the wine cups. The sights of Luoyang, the western capital, have always been especially delightful. Alas, though its plants and trees still flourish in beauty, who is left to cherish them?

Waking from Sleep in the Bamboo Courtyard

I wake in the bamboo courtyard and lean at ease against the desk as the long summer day slowly passes. An oriole is teaching its young to sing, and the fruit on the apricot tree has turned pale yellow.

Raindrops fall, and a quiet dream breaks off and resumes. The wind blows, carrying my thoughts far away. Awake, I still lean idly against the desk; the summer day remains long. The oriole teaches its young to call, and the apricots gradually turn yellow. The sound of rain interrupts my dreams, while the wind stirs thoughts of distant places. Water murmurs in the small channel beneath the dense green shade. When I come to myself, I realize that several more days have passed.

Six Poems on Autumn Outings

In the seventh month, lotuses bloom in abundance, and lately I have often wandered through the garden to the southeast. At times a light breeze sweeps toward the middle of the pond, sending countless delicate fragrances drifting over the water.

The stream at Enhua, picturesque and winding deep into the hills, drew me in by chance. By evening I reached Lake Dongting; it was already late, and I had no time to make the return journey. I sat for a while when a fine drizzle began, bringing a refreshing coolness to the rim of my wine cup.

Autumn had not yet officially arrived, but its clear, crisp air was already stirring quietly. Only then did Luoyang notice the season and weather gradually settling into balance. The courtyard suddenly grew cool, to everyone’s relief; rain had washed the gardens, and the air was especially fresh.

I sailed back along the Yi River, a light breeze brushing the water. I rode slowly across Tianjin Bridge beneath the bright moon. I have worthy ministers like Gao Yao and Kui, the wise officials of Emperor Shun, to share the ruler’s concerns; it is just the time to take pleasure in poetry and wine and enjoy an age of peace.

The days of the eighth month are not yet bleak with cold, and the pines and bamboo by the pavilion are especially pleasant. Besides, day and night have just become equal in length: the season is perfectly balanced between warmth and chill.

The bright moon shines into my heart as if it means to keep me company; a fresh breeze meets my face like an old friend. I, at leisure, recite poems and sing, content in my own delight, and pay no mind to whether the court gathers up poetry.

My home stands by the water on the city’s southern edge, surrounded by bamboo. I have never missed a chance to go out and enjoy the autumn light. The weather, just turning cool, suits me well; no one can tell that I am already a little drunk.

After a light rain, I rode at an easy pace along the imperial avenue. When the sky cleared at dusk, I leaned on the railing and gazed toward the monks’ pavilion. For ten years I have savored every autumn scene; now I only wish to face the autumn wind and stroke my graying beard.

Though the autumn light of the ninth month is nearing its end, the Central Plain has not yet wholly faded. The colors of autumn stretch as far as the eye can see; in my hand I hold a few sprigs of yellow chrysanthemum.

Fine wine is the readiest way to while away idle days. Better not look in the bronze mirror at a face grown old. If I must make others believe what is in my heart, then even if I pour out all my sincerity, who could truly understand?

The sky, veiled in autumn frost, is vast and desolate; sorrow stretches on without end. A tall tower blocks my view, keeping me from gazing freely into the distance. Though the far mountains appear on every side, the palace in the ninth month seems remote and empty.

Clouds lie across the distant peaks, and the mountains rise high. The slanting sun shines on them, scattering the sunset glow into strands of red. My heart holds boundless sorrow, but I cannot put it into words. Facing the autumn wind, to whom can I confide it?

Reflections on an Autumn Day

By day, birds fill the woods with their clamorous calls. For whom do they fly about so tirelessly? At night, insects crowd the courtyard with their cries. For whom do they labor so ceaselessly?

Alas, why are their lives so brief, with no rest for a moment, day or night? What, I wonder, can truly be called lasting? Perhaps birds and insects each have their own strengths, and both can forget whether they ought to speak or remain silent.

Written on the Road through Shangshan

Ten stages bring you to Shangyan. The journey is long, but not especially difficult. Traveling east and west along the Luo River, you can take in the whole landscape, looking out across both the inner and outer slopes of the Qin Mountains.

Though I live beyond the mist and clouds, my thoughts remain with my parents at home. The distance is not so great, so I can naturally set a date to return in advance and be home on time.

Only the Queen Mother of the West, with her singular ingenuity, could have snipped the clouds at the edge of the sky into fragments and turned them into plum blossoms. Their fragrance is boundless, their forms clear and graceful. The pleasure of drinking before the wine cups and admiring the flowers is yours to enjoy.

Plum blossoms cover the spring stream, whose waters wind around the mountain. The blossoms flourish, and the stream murmurs as it flows. The climate around Nanqin is warm, so the plum trees bloom early; before the start of spring, they have already blossomed several times.

Flowers of every kind bloom in their turn. Among them, the plum blossom is perhaps the one of finest character, standing apart in purity and distinction. Understand the intent of the Spring Deity, Dongjun, and you will see that he shows no favoritism: he simply cherishes the plum blossom’s quiet elegance and restraint, and so lets it bloom first.

Frost sets off the plum blossom’s noble bearing, while the cold wind carries its fragrance far away. The prefect is sentimental, and the guests are deeply moved as well. Draining the golden cups of wine is a fine way to celebrate gathering together to admire the blossoms.

The embers glow faintly; the lamp burns dim, and night lies deep. Wrapped in a cold quilt, I silently recall the past. Even the bright moon shining across a thousand miles of frosty sky cannot match the small, aching sorrow in my heart for the troubles of our times.

The climate south of Shangshan is as warm as Lingnan’s. In the twelfth lunar month, the plum blossoms have already been open for twelve days. They disdain the vulgar contest among the hundred flowers, standing apart from all the rest and greeting spring ahead of them.

The fragrance of plum blossoms seems to emerge from the flute, so piercingly clear it penetrates to the bones; it also seems to be blown out on the flute, exquisite to the point of enchantment. The makeup on the beauty’s forehead is gradually fading, with white powder still clinging to her face. Songs rise warm and soft among the painted beams, stirring up fine dust.

The county magistrate cherishes the beauty of the plum blossoms and presents them to the prefect. The prefect, in turn, shares the fragrant flowers, so that people in the countryside can enjoy them too. Holding a few branches, I smell them again and again. How could I bear not to let their fragrance touch my lips as I drink?

“He fangren fanghuai” means responding to another’s poem and expressing one’s feelings.

Although we cannot foresee the future, how can wealth and fame be forced? To clear the heart, wine is best; to give free rein to one’s thoughts, nothing surpasses poetry.

And when surrounded by flowing waters, bamboo groves, and cloud-wreathed mountains, how could one let such lovely moments of wind, flowers, snow, and moonlight pass by unappreciated? A man of ambition knows when to advance and when to withdraw, what to take and what to leave. Why not seize this moment and laugh with abandon?

In Reply to Prefect Shang: Climbing the Tower to View the Snow

Admiring the snow from the west tower, I see the scene before me with extraordinary clarity, as though I were gradually entering a world of crystal. Snowflakes artfully adorn the earth: some whirl through the air, while others drift at an angle, skimming past the pillars of the covered walkway.

The flakes are like scattered jade dust, falling and breaking apart; they are like willow catkins, yet lighter still. Who says a traveler far away at the edge of the world cannot enjoy the snow? We drink and admire it all the same, though our moods are quite different.

In Reply to Prefect Shang: Snow Clears over the West Tower

Heavy snow has adorned the earth. Some flakes whirl through the air, while others drift at an angle, skimming past the pillars of the covered walkway.

The flakes are like scattered jade dust, falling and breaking apart; they are like willow catkins, yet lighter still. Who says a traveler far away at the edge of the world cannot enjoy the snow? We drink and admire it all the same, though our moods are quite different.

In Reply to Prefect Shang: Snow Clears over the West Tower

The heavy snow has just cleared, and the sun is already slanting westward. Again and again I climb the high tower to admire the view. Several peaks rise steeply, sharp as sword blades; a river winds and bends, its icy surface glistening like newly spun silk.

It is as if Mount Kunlun, the fabled sacred mountain, had been brought here, with white jade everywhere; the Celestial River, the legendary Milky Way, has fallen from the sky and turned to silver. I, a recluse, regret that I cannot write a fine poem, but the landscape never disappoints.

In Reply to Prefect Shang: Climbing the Tower as the Snow Melts

The remaining snow has melted, and the ice has thawed. Bright scenery is gradually emerging all around the tower. I, a traveler, have yet to reach the capital, but spring has already arrived from the horizon.

Besides, there is always fine wine in my cup. How could I neglect the plum blossoms on the ridge? If the prefect and I did not share a bond as deep as orchids and gold, who would so warmly cherish someone as ordinary as me?

In Reply to Prefect Shang: Facing the Moon after the Snow Clears

The mountains are pure white after the snow, and frost lies across the courtyard. The moonlight is cold, as though it were gently grinding over the earth. The sorrow of my life away from home is far less carefree than before; though the moon shines brightly tonight, it only deepens the loneliness.

Bamboo beside the curtains casts delicate, broken shadows; a breeze passes over the terrace pavilion, bringing a serene coolness. I regret having no fine poem with which to answer this lovely scene. I can only sit alone in desolation, unable even to make my dreams come true.

In Reply to Prefect Shang: Climbing the Tower after the Snow Clears

After the light snow had stopped, the poet climbed to a high terrace. At dawn, he gazed out at leisure, and the scene before him was especially clear and cold. Mountains stretched across the evening haze, now visible, now hidden. Through the sparse trees, the water seemed at one moment misty and at the next bright.

The sunset clouds spread into thousands of streaks at the edge of the sky, while two or three notes of a bugle lingered in the wind. The scene was truly worthy of a painting; one could only fear that a painter’s brush might not be subtle enough to capture it.

Seeing Out the Year While Traveling

Before long, the new year will arrive; for now, let the wine give off its fragrance, then pour another cup. The handle of the Northern Dipper points toward the Chou position—the ancient method of marking time by the Dipper’s direction, with Chou corresponding to the twelfth lunar month. The year is drawing to a close, time flies like an arrow, and the new spring is about to come.

There is no need to let worldly entanglements needlessly disturb the heart. For the most part, my feelings have already grown as cold and still as ashes. Empty fame has long since drifted beyond the clouds; besides, time passes in an instant, urging us onward.

Composed in Response to the Prefect of Shang on the New Year, Jiayou 6 (1061)

A frail body, living far from home, meets the New Year once more. I lament the passing years of my life; my hair is quick to turn white. When the wine is gone, my heart remains lonely; after the gathering, I feel all the more listless.

Around the Wangxian Tower, the weather is clear and the scenery especially lovely. Night stretches into the distance, its view reflected in green curtains. Facing it all, I sit alone and numb, like wood or clay. How could such a scene fail to stir a shadow of sorrow?

In Reply to Wang Changshi’s Poem on Climbing the Prefectural Tower to View the Mountains

Four worthy men once lingered here; people a thousand years later still honor them. Those renowned throughout the realm cannot escape involvement in worldly affairs. If one has no aspiration in one’s heart, there is no need to withdraw in vain to the mountains and forests.

By observing the rise and fall of past and present, one can see how the world changes. The great principles are also reflected in the choices rulers and ministers make about when to advance and when to withdraw. If one possesses extraordinary ability, one should be put to extraordinary use; otherwise, a lifetime of idle obscurity will have been wasted.

Four Poems on the Temple of the Four Eminent Elders

The Qin dynasty lost its rule, and the realm fell into war, with rivers of blood. All under heaven searched for a ruler, yet the four eminent men refused to serve. The contenders were fighting for the realm, and no one knew whose hands would ultimately hold the imperial throne.

Liu Bang, later Emperor Gaozu of Han, had already raised his forces at Bashang. The four men looked at one another, and none spoke. After a while, they said that Heaven’s mandate had its destined recipient. Better to follow men like Chaofu and Xu You, who turned away from worldly affairs and lived in retirement.

Emperor Gaozu of Han treated others arrogantly and could not, in the end, make the four men yield. Later, when the Crown Prince invited them with humble words, they agreed to leave their retreat. Though elderly, the four men were still able to accomplish great things; their noble integrity shines to this day like the stars and moon.

Tian Heng fled to the sea and was still able to preserve his life. When the Four Elders of Shangshan came to Chang’an, they were still more than a hundred miles from the city. Gaozu was able to uphold the four elders’ noble integrity; from this we know that he was indeed a true emperor.

I am grateful that the prefect of Shangzhou has held fast to noble principles, shining bright as the stars and the sun.

A new letter has arrived from Shangyu, the region around Shangzhou, adding a sense of closeness to what I had long hoped for. I am especially delighted that the Song of the Purple Mushrooms seems already to be in my hands, while Mount Tianzhu to the southwest rises so high that it seems to meet the heavens.

At first, I meant to fulfill my ambition of aiding the ruler and drawing near to the court. I once hurried through the capital in the course of official duties, like the Dipper’s handle turning as spring gave way to spring. Now I can live beneath Mount Tianzhu, with no more worry that someone will come seeking me in the night.

I no longer submit matters of life and death to the ruler. Instead, I embrace the mountain mists and learn the life of a recluse. I thank you, Sir Shi—a respectful form of address for a local official—for keeping a place open and once again inviting me, the hermit who lives on Mount Tianzhu.

Mists and clouds gather in a shifting mass, while steep and solitary Mount Tianzhu is perfectly suited to a life of seclusion and spiritual cultivation. From now on, I intend to withdraw to the western mountains and need not wander through the human world in search of a way forward.

I have achieved nothing, and for a long time have lived among the beasts like a wild deer. I am deeply grateful for Sir Shi’s kindness, which has allowed me to be entered into the household register. May my name endure through the ages, remaining alongside the peaks of Mount Tianzhu.

To Song, the Gentleman Attendant and Prefect of Shangzhou:

I have just returned to Luoyang, where countless affairs await me. A quiet life seems at odds with my proper duties. Yet I am gradually coming to feel at ease, much as the Four Elders of Shangshan once lived contentedly in the Shangshan mountains.

On waking from sleep in the small garden:

Outside the gate, it seems, lie deep mountains; one’s nature can indeed return to what is natural. Beyond the life of hurrying through official circles in court robes, I find myself in a world where the sun and moon make their rounds.

Water fills the garden, and the pavilion seems to stir with life. When there is no wind, the plants sit in quiet ease. Spring birdsong breaks the stillness of sleep, their calls soft and melodious among the branches.

Three Poems on Wandering in the Mountains:

After living for so long in the noisy city, one naturally grows weary. As soon as I step outside the city gate, the scene opens brightly before me. I have wandered all through Longmen and taken in the views of the Yi River valley; I have listened to every sound of the Luo River around Mount Nü’er.

I have watched the red sun rise from Mount Taishi, then gazed from Mount Tiantan at white clouds lifting into the sky. I have resolved to follow my companions on the Daoist path and will not change my mind for petty gains or losses.

As spring draws to a close, it is the perfect time to climb to a high place and take in the sights. Both the mood and the weather are delightful. At night I sail along the Yi River as the wind shifts; when I fish by the stream, the moon rises just in time.

When inspiration comes, I pour it out in poetry. My frail body can only be sustained by wine. Life is brief, and little time remains beneath the sun and moon. Why spend it with a furrowed brow?

Do what brings joy, and avoid what brings worry. In general, one who knows how to accept fate is a true man. Small achievements are not within everyone’s reach; I will find contentment in fully enjoying the pleasures of mountains and rivers.

Do not fear that the mountain mists and clouds lie far away. While my strength has not yet declined, I will go and enjoy them. What could be better than finding, during one’s life, a joy beyond the everyday? Once wealth and glory have passed, they bring only sorrow.

Peaches in Two Colors

The peach blossoms are touched with red and powdered white, both hues lovely; each color has its own brilliance, and their beauty is unmatched. Perhaps they are two goddesses from the Palace of the Pistil Pearl, a celestial palace in Daoist legend, who have both chosen to wed the spring breeze.

(The lines “While my strength has not yet declined… Once wealth and glory have passed, they bring only sorrow” are repeated in the original with the same meaning.)

A Song on Climbing Mountains and Approaching Water

Mountains have lofty peaks, and waters roll with waves. If even a shoe cannot contain them, how could a small boat? It is not that benevolent and wise people have failed to find joy in them; few, however, can climb high or approach the water without dreading the exertion.

When people speak of flavor, they know only the sweetness of sliced fish and roast meat. When it comes to truth, who understands the worth of words as precious as jade? I am ashamed that I have not fully shown my abilities, and I often regret that people today think too highly of me.

Two Poems Thanking Chancellor Fu for Inviting Me to Serve

Thank you for inviting me and for not forgetting me. I had thought you believed I had other plans in mind. If I were to enter public service, how could I avoid the constraints of official duties? And if I am living in retirement, why give me yet another official title?

(The messenger said that if I did not wish to take office, I could instead be given a modest, undemanding title.)

I would rather be like Chao Fu and Xu You, who chose to live in seclusion even under the enlightened rule of Yao and Shun. I would also be content to spend my final years in an age as peaceful as theirs, when every household lived in ease. The court is full of worthy men; frail as I am, I am of no consequence to the safety or peril of the state.

I hope to fulfill my lifelong plan of remaining at home in retirement, though I do not know what Heaven intends. How could the honor of several layers of official robes and a high position compare with the spacious beauty of the mountains and rivers before me?

Whenever I encounter fine scenery, I am never short of inspiration to write poetry; but my youthful ambitions have worn away. The worthy ministers at court have their own free and easy life amid the rivers and lakes. Why take the trouble to set a net and draw me into it?

Reply to Someone on the Teachings of Social Order

Since heaven and earth first came into being, the teachings that guide the world have gradually spread. In the meantime, the ambitions of those who call themselves heroes and men of mettle have gradually faded. Truly noble people of talent and virtue find their own pleasure among rivers, lakes, and mountains. Why take the trouble to set nets and traps to bind them?

Reply to Someone on the Teachings of Names and Institutions

Since heaven and earth first came into being, the teachings that guide the world have gradually spread. Among those who truly deserve to be called outstanding are the genuine Confucians. There are established methods for cultivating oneself, and those who can put them into practice are the awakened pioneers. In what age have there been no people who understood profound principles?

The principles found in the Classics and histories shine clearly, like cinnabar and blue-green pigments; the path shown by the sages is bright as the sun and moon. Though I, a shallow scholar, have immersed myself in study for a long time, how could I dare look down on the gifted people of the world?

Sending Academician Wang Bochu to Beijing on an Important Assignment

A great man’s purpose and mettle can be judged only at the end of his life. He has his own far-reaching plans, bearing on the weight of success or failure in his work. It is hard to set out without feeling attachment to old friends; once at his post, how could he bear to forget those old ties at once?

In casual conversation, words are best when precise and considered. Before events come to pass, one should begin making plans, seeking peace throughout the realm. Who says there is no skillful way to resist foreign enemies? A winning strategy does not necessarily have to rely on force.

Notes

• In one passage, the Siku Quanshu edition reads “the state’s limited seasonal sacrifices.”
• The sixth year of the Tianbao era under Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang dynasty, corresponding to 747 CE.
• Some lines differ across editions. The Biheng printed edition and the Siku Quanshu edition have, in certain places: “the pine pavilion and bamboo terrace are especially fitting”; “my home lies by the water and bamboo on the southern outskirts”; “take the chance to pluck white hairs before the wind”; “by the time next year arrives, countless moments will have passed”; and “time flashes by, and how much more swiftly it presses on.”

Volume Two of the Collected Works from Striking the Soil by the Yi River

Autumn Drinking in the Song Family Garden of Zhengzhou, Presented to Zhou Zhengshu, Registrar of Guancheng County

The two capitals, Luoyang and Kaifeng, lie four hundred li apart. Between them is a famous garden belonging to the Song family. Ancient trees rise high into the clouds, their branches and trunks crossing like swords; long vines trail to the ground, winding like dragons and snakes.

I came to visit the garden in late autumn. You laid out a feast for me, and together we sat facing flowers still blooming in the evening. After the banquet, a light rain had just fallen beyond the bamboo pavilion. At dawn I set out on my return, startling the roosting crows into flight.

Returning on the Double Ninth Festival to My Former Home at Baiyuan in Gongcheng

To meet the Double Ninth Festival in one’s hometown and climb high for a distant view should bring joy, yet I feel only sorrow. The mountains and rivers before me seem separated by a dream. Ten years away from home, and only now have I had the chance to see this landscape once more.

New white hairs flutter at my temples; beside the old fence, chrysanthemums still grow. The people of my village will surely laugh at me: only when a man returns home in splendid robes can he be called a son who has made something of himself.

Passing Through Shan, Composed in 1058, the Third Year of Jiayou

How illustrious were my ancestors’ achievements! They governed a territory in the southern lands of Zhou. They aided King Wu of Zhou in founding the dynasty, were enfeoffed in Shan, and later assisted the young King Cheng.

The years have passed, and those events lie far in the past. The mountains and rivers remain, vast and desolate. Though I, their descendant, have proved unworthy, I still remember the kindness my ancestors left behind, like the care Duke of Shao showed the people and the people’s remembrance of him.

Inscribed on the Yellow River

Who says the Yellow River brings more benefit than harm? I see its waters murky year after year, never truly clear. It rises in the west at the Kunlun Mountains and flows east to the sea; along its course, who knows how many injustices are voiced by the people?

Passing Through Tong Pass

The prohibitions imposed and strict defenses set up in times of war were meant to preserve peace. When the realm is settled and government affairs run smoothly, that is what peace looks like. Mountains and rivers may be defended by their natural barriers, but can they really make room for people to fight one another?

We do not investigate principles such as the “one in a thousand,” but merely pass around names such as the “hundred and two.” For a long time, the distant frontier has faced no threat. Why, then, sound the warning at cockcrow?

Inscribed on Mount Hua

The realm has five sacred peaks, and the state offers sacrifices to them at appointed times. Mount Hua is one of them, guarding the western frontier, towering and majestic.

In the Tang dynasty it was called the King of Golden Heaven; today it is enfeoffed as the Emperor Who Follows the Sage. Ah, it seems almost truly divine: the reverence it receives is as though it were equal to Heaven and Earth.

A Night at Huaqing Palace

In the sixth year of the Tianbao era, a palace was built beside the hot springs. From then on, Emperor Ming of Tang and his consort came here each year on imperial visits.

Purple Pavilion Peak looks secluded in the fresh breeze, and the bright moon shines before the layered mountain ridges. How sad that the fragrant water still trickles from the pair of stone urns.

Climbing Chaoyuan Pavilion

Embroidered Ridge rises high, its peaks stacked one upon another. The mountain path to Chaoyuan Pavilion winds and turns through nineteen bends. After the rain, the mountains appear indistinct, and the pavilion emerges far away among the clouds.

The imperial carriages of former days have long since departed, and the jade statues left behind are now damaged. Even today, standing by the Wei River and climbing to Chaoyuan Pavilion, one can still see Chang’an.

On the Road to Chang’an

Walking along the road to Chang’an, why do tears soak my clothes? Those who traveled this road in ancient times are gone, yet people still travel it today. As the seasons turn and day gives way to night, people seem to take no notice; the rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves never cease.

This place was hard going to begin with: rain turns the road to mud, while wind sends dust billowing. Mud and dust alternate again and again, who knows how many times. When heavy rain and strong winds arrive, people cannot go out.

Inscribed at the Shrine of the Marquis of Liu

Zhang Liang, the Marquis of Liu, brought Xiang Yu down and helped Liu Bang establish the Han, as though turning his hand. Overthrowing the Qin and raising up the Han was like rearranging a game of chess. By the time he was devising strategies and directing the course of the realm, he had already laid his foundations through cultivating his nature and practicing bigu, abstaining from ordinary food.

He put into practice all the teachings passed down by the Yellow Stone Elder. Later, with the immortal Red Pine as his companion, what more could he need? If we seek someone whose talent and achievements could match his, there are truly few to name, from ancient times to the present.

Ten Poems Inscribed at the Shrine of the Marquis of Huaiyin

By the time he was devising strategies and directing the course of the realm, he had already laid his foundations through cultivating his nature and practicing bigu, abstaining from ordinary food.

He put into practice all the teachings passed down by the Yellow Stone Elder. Later, with the immortal Red Pine as his companion, what more could he need? If we seek someone whose talent and achievements could match his, there are truly few to name, from ancient times to the present.

For a man who rebels, killing him alone might be enough; wiping out his entire clan seems excessively harsh. In the early years of the Han dynasty, the art of governing still mingled with methods of force. Though Xiao He had the talent to assist a ruler, his position was probably not yet especially distinguished.

Han Xin built great achievements through his military victories and was by no means lacking in intelligence. Yet later he coveted the title of king, showing remarkable poor judgment. He helped establish the Han dynasty, which lasted four hundred years, but once the realm was at peace, he was put to death.

If he lived under an enlightened ruler, why did he need to make himself a provisional king to achieve distinction? Who can say that this was where disaster began? Han Xin, for his part, should not have turned around and blamed Emperor Gaozu of Han.

For a time, Han Xin became one of the Han house’s fierce generals, while Xiao He became a senior minister who helped secure its hegemony. Both acted against the Confucian moral order, yet their offenses still did not match that man’s.

Han Xin served Liu Bang without divided loyalties. Xiao He, however, grew suspicious of the Han court and eventually became doubtful. Had Han Xin followed Kuai Tong’s advice—to establish himself as ruler and create a separate power—the outcome of Emperor Gaozu’s rise and fall would have been impossible to predict.

Fan Li was intelligent, yet at the crucial moment when he had to choose whether to advance, withdraw, live, or die, he made the right decision. Han Xin did not. The misty waters of the Five Lakes remain as they were, but no one after Fan Li, who withdrew once his success was complete, followed his path.

Without Han Xin, Liu Bang would have found it difficult to defeat Xiang Yu; without Xiao He, it would have been difficult to keep Han Xin in check. Great affairs of state cannot be accomplished by one person alone. Had Liu Bang not employed Xiao He, many things would have been hard to bring to a successful conclusion.

Once the foundations of the Han dynasty were secure, the court began to assess the merits of its founding officials. Five men of different surnames were enfeoffed as kings. Among them, the Marquis of Huaiyin, Han Xin, was especially outstanding, yet he dared to rely on his achievements and assert his own importance, nearly throwing the now-stable Han dynasty into turmoil once more.

Han Xin relied on his achievements without fully weighing the consequences. The Han emperor repaid his loyalty with betrayal, placing the security of his power above all else. Once Han Xin had been imprisoned, the emperor was bound to find a way to seize and execute him; carrying this out was not difficult.

One who has known sudden elevation may also suffer sudden humiliation; after many moments of joy, many troubles may follow. If, once his work was done, he had returned the seal of kingship, he could have remained a hereditary marquis of his fief for generations.

Written on the County Tower of Fengzhou

Willow branches droop, green as soft ribbons; when the wind passes, they sway like whirling canopies. I climb the high tower, my thoughts stretching on without end, and spend the day at leisure, gazing at the scene before me.

After the birds fly away, the woods seem deserted. Clouds drift by, while the mountains remain stretched across the horizon, unimpeded. My thoughts follow a pair of swallows returning home; my heart meets the solitary wild goose flying alone.

At dusk, the horn sounds on and off, and tier upon tier of cliffs appear and fade in alternating light and shadow. The setting sun glows through scattered red clouds, while faint ripples stir on the distant water.

Beneath the cold winter sun, clouds and mist shroud the mountains, lending them a deep, dense gloom. The capital lies so far away it seems to be at the edge of the sky. What sorrow must fill the heart of one who has lived long in a foreign land? I lean against the railing and gaze eastward, unable to dispel my melancholy.

Returning from Fengzhou to Qinchuan Station, I Send This to the Two Deputy Prefects, Xue and Yao

Ninety days of joyful companionship, recalled now, seem no more than a dream. The moon is unchanged, the clear river is unchanged, yet we can no longer sit together in the eastern pavilion to admire the moon and look out over the river.

In Thanks to Zhang Yuanbo of the Western Terrace for Sending a Poem in the Snow

In Luoyang, snowflakes fall as large as palms. There is no fire in the stove, nor wine in the cup. At dawn, someone knocks at the door, bringing a poem from Zhang Yuanbo of the Western Terrace.

Seeing Off Zhang, Registrar of Yishi

You are going into public service in the human world, traveling thousands of miles and leaving your parents at home, with two long stretches of road between you. Remember: the great Peng bird’s soaring begins from this moment. The road ahead is perilous; you must meet its challenges skillfully and find a way through in safety.

A New Year’s Reflection, Jiayou Year Five (1060 CE)

Qu Yuan came to recognize his past mistakes only at the age of fifty, while Master Kong was still studying the Classic of Changes in his later years. Such, by and large, is the way of human affairs. Could Heaven’s will truly be without cause?

The more weary I grow from handling affairs, the firmer my wish to withdraw to the mountains and forests. Who shares my aspirations and will join me in growing old together at Yichuan?

Five Poems on Spring Outings

In the Five Ridges, plum blossoms open in the twelfth lunar month; around Luoyang, where the three rivers meet, they cannot be admired until the first month. Though the two places are ten thousand miles apart, the flowers bloom a month earlier in one than the other. Only then do we learn that spring arrives first in the south.

Who is it that plays such a lovely tune on the qiangdi, the flute of the northwestern borderlands? All day long, the fragrance of plum blossoms seems to drift down into my wine cup. I imagine that travelers far away at the edge of the world, still unable to return home, too, would linger for a long time before this scene.

Spring stretches without end across Luoyang, and the eastern part of the city is especially lovely. A gentle breeze stirs a thousand willows; faint ripples shimmer on the water, reflecting blossoms that spread across half the river.

The haze clears and the sky brightens; kingfishers skim over the level bank. Warm sunlight falls as mandarin ducks settle on the shallow sand. The sovereign has long been away on his western progress and has not returned. Travelers can only sigh at the passing years, as their own hair has turned gray.

In February, when hundreds of flowers are in full bloom, the emperor has yet to make his progress through this place, and the spring seems to lack a center. I search for signs of spring beneath the shade of green willows, then return, half drunk, through the fragrance of red apricot blossoms.

A few fallen petals set the butterflies chasing after them. The slanting light of sunset falls across the scene, while an oriole calls from a branch. Wine fills the cup, and my loving parents are delighted. Before the steps, I can still don brightly colored clothes and amuse them like a child. This alludes to the story of Lao Laizi, who wore colorful clothes to entertain his parents, and evokes the joy of keeping them company.

Among the festivals of human life, the Cold Food Festival is the one most worth cherishing; among the famous gardens of the realm, people prize the gardens of Luoyang above all. At Golden Valley Garden, the air is warm and the palace halls gleam with green. Under the bright sunlight around Bronze Camel Street, elegantly dressed people wander amid light and shadow.

By the bridge, slender willow branches droop low; beyond the flowers, half of a swing rises above the wall. A white horse trots lightly over grass as smooth as if it had been clipped. I have been coming here to enjoy myself for more than ten years.

In the third month, peonies bloom in abundance. Wherever the drums beat most thickly, there you will find a garden feast among pavilions and terraces. Women in carriages laugh and chatter along the way; below the buildings, people stroll at ease, watching the scene.

Layer upon layer of green is reflected in the water, swaying like curtains; the fragrance of flowers around Shangyang Palace drifts into the wine cups. The climate and scenery of the Western Capital have always suited the growth of plants. Now they flourish in vain—but who will grieve when they fade?

Waking from a Nap in the Bamboo Courtyard

I wake from my midday nap in the bamboo courtyard and lean at ease against a small table as the long summer day slowly passes. An oriole is teaching its young to practice their tender calls, and the apricot tree is laden with fruit, its apricots tinged a pale yellow.

Raindrops fall intermittently, stirring me from a quiet dream. Then the wind blows, setting my faraway thoughts adrift again. Water murmurs through the narrow channel, and dense green shade surrounds it. Looking back, I realize that many days have passed since my last outing.

Six Poems on Autumn Excursions

In the seventh month, the lotus flowers are in full bloom. Lately, I often wander through the garden in the southeast. Sometimes the wind blows from the middle of the pond, and the water carries waves of rich fragrance toward me.

I lose my way and wander deep inside, as though I have entered a stream in a painting. Evening has fallen, and I have yet to return to Lake Dongting. After sitting for a while, a fine, rustling rain suddenly begins, bringing the chill of autumn right to my wine cup.

Autumn has not officially arrived, yet its clear, refreshing air has quietly begun to stir. Only now do the people of Luoyang notice the season settling into calm. A sudden coolness fills the courtyards, bringing joy to everyone; after a rain, the gardens seem fresher still.

As I sail back, a gentle breeze brushes the Yi River, a tributary of the Luo. Riding slowly toward the area around Tianjin Bridge, I find the moon shining bright. Gao and Kui, those worthy ministers said to have aided Emperors Shun and Yu, can share the ruler’s worries. I need only enjoy these peaceful days with poetry and wine.

August is not yet bleak, and the pine pavilion and bamboo grove are especially pleasant. Day and night have just begun to draw equal in length, and the weather is neither too hot nor too cold.

The bright moon shines into my heart, as though it means to keep me company; a cool breeze meets me like an understanding friend. I sing and recite poems at ease, content in my own pleasure, heedless of whether the court sends anyone to gather poems from the people and learn of their lives.

I live beside the water south of the city, near a bamboo grove. Autumn outings to admire the scenery never fail to delight me. The slight chill suits me perfectly; in my half-drunken hours, others may not even notice.

After the rain, I ride at leisure along Tian Street, one of Luoyang’s thoroughfares. At dusk, when the sky clears, I lean against the railing of a temple pavilion. For ten years I have sought out countless beautiful scenes. Now I need only face the wind and ask it to whiten my beard.

Though September’s autumn light is nearly spent, the scenery of Zhongzhou, the Central Plain centered on Luoyang in ancient times, has not yet wholly faded. Autumn colors stretch as far as the eye can see; holding two or three sprigs of chrysanthemum, I need only face the wind and ask it to whiten my beard.

Though September’s autumn light is nearly spent, the scenery of Zhongzhou has not yet wholly faded. Autumn colors fill the distance, and I hold two or three sprigs of chrysanthemum in my hand.

Fine wine makes short work of idle hours; better not to use a bronze mirror to inspect a face grown old. If I must make others believe my sincerity, then even if I pour out all my heart, who would believe me?

Beneath the vast, lonely frost-filled sky, sorrow has no end. A tall tower looms close, as though blocking my view. Distant mountains appear on every side, yet the palace stands high amid late autumn, solitary and desolate.

Clouds stretch across distant ridges, rising layer upon layer. The slanting sun scatters its glow, tinting a few wisps of cloud red. My heart holds endless sorrow, too deep to put into words. To whom could I speak, and tell it all to the west wind?

An Autumn Day

By day, birds chatter and dart through the woods. Why do they toil so, forever rushing about? At night, insects fill the courtyard with their cries. Why are they so ceaselessly at work?

Alas, their lives are so brief, yet they never rest. Tell me, whose life lasts longer? People, birds, and insects alike can forget the difference between busyness and stillness.

Written on the Road through Shangshan

Ten stages of travel bring me to Shangyan. The road is long, but not difficult. Along the way, I pass back and forth between the eastern and western banks of the Luo; near and far, the mountains of Qin come into view.

Beyond the realm of mist and rosy clouds, …

“Written on the Road Through Shang Mountain”

After ten stages of travel, I reached the area around Shangyan Mountain. The journey was long, but not especially difficult. All along the way, I followed the Luo River, sometimes eastward, sometimes westward, and could see the Qin Mountains both near and far.

Though my body was beyond the mist-veiled mountains, my heart was still attached to my family. Besides, my parents’ home was not far away. If I set a date for my return, I could naturally make my way back.

“Harmonizing with Magistrate Zhang Zihou of Shangluo on Early Plum Blossoms”

The plum blossoms seem to have been fashioned by the Queen Mother of the West, who used her deft hands to cut them from the scattered white clouds at the edge of the sky. They possess both an endless fragrance and a radiant beauty; even the refined pleasure of admiring them and drinking wine at a feast falls short of yours.

Plum blossoms blanket the spring stream, whose waters wind around green hills. The flowers bloom brilliantly as the stream ripples on. The climate in southern Qin is warm, so the plums bloom early; before spring even begins, they have already flowered several times.

Flowers and plants take their turns vying to bloom. Of them all, the plum alone is first in nobility of character. If one understands that the Spring Lord, Dongjun, is not showing favoritism, but simply cherishes the plum’s pure and unadorned nature and so lets it bloom early, one will understand this arrangement.

Frost sets off the plum’s noble bearing, while the cold wind carries its fragrance far away. The governor is generous in his feelings, and his guests are deeply moved. Everyone raises a cup and drinks freely; the wine vessels are drained, making this gathering a fitting occasion.

“Written While Traveling in Shang Mountain”

The night is deep; the last embers and dim lamp flicker. Beneath a cold quilt, I silently recall the past. The bright moon shines over the frosty sky, reaching a thousand miles away, yet it cannot equal the ache in my heart, no wider than an inch, brought on by the times.

“Harmonizing with Magistrate Song, the Prefect of Shang, on Early Plum Blossoms”

The climate south of the mountains is as warm as Lingnan’s. In the twelfth lunar month, the plum blossoms have already been open for more than ten days. Disdaining the worldly display of competing with the other flowers, they alone welcome spring first among them all.

The plum’s fragrance drifts through the sound of the horn, haunting to the bone; carried by the flute, it becomes so exquisite that it seems to enter the very soul. The blossoms are like the trace of white powder left on a beauty’s brow, or like light dust rising among the painted beams as warm song fills the hall.

The county magistrate, cherishing the plum’s beauty, first presents it to the governor; the prefect then shares its fragrance with ordinary people. Holding several sprigs in my hands, I smell them again and again. How could I bear to let fragrant wine wet my lips?

“Harmonizing with Someone on Giving Free Rein to One’s Feelings”

Though we cannot foresee the future, how could wealth and fame be won by personal effort alone? To wash away the vexation in one’s heart, drinking wine is best; to let the mind roam freely, nothing surpasses writing poetry.

Besides, here we are in a place of water, bamboo, clouds, and mountains. How could we waste the lovely hours of wind and flowers, snow and moonlight? A man should hold great ambitions, yet also understand when to advance, when to withdraw, and what to give up. Since that is so, why not lift our brows and smile, and wait for another opportunity?

Ascending the Western Tower to View the Snow, in Harmony with the Prefect

Viewing the snow from the western tower, I find the scene before me especially bright. Gradually, it feels as though I have entered a palace of crystal. Thousands upon thousands of snowflakes adorn the earth with exquisite grace: half whirl through the air, half drift slantwise toward the veranda columns. When would be a better time to greet such a sight with a smile?

Ascending the Western Tower to View the Snow, in Harmony with the Prefect

Viewing the snow from the western tower, I find the scene before me especially bright. Gradually, it feels as though I have entered a palace of crystal. Thousands upon thousands of snowflakes adorn the earth with exquisite grace: half whirl through the air, half drift slantwise toward the veranda columns.

The flakes fall like jade dust, then break apart; they resemble poplar fluff, yet are lighter still. Who says a traveler far away, at the edge of the world, has no cares? We may share the same wine, yet each of us feels something different.

After the Snow Clears on the Western Tower, in Harmony with the Prefect

The heavy snow has passed, and the sky has only just cleared; the sun is already sinking in the west. Climbing the high tower to look out, how could one ever tire of doing so? Several peaks rise tall and sharp as sword blades; a river winds around them like threads of newly formed ice.

Kunlun seems to have been moved here before my eyes, with white jade everywhere. After the Milky Way has descended, the whole world seems to turn silver. The recluse regrets only that he cannot write a fine poem; in truth, the landscape never disappoints those who behold it.

Ascending the Tower as the Snow Melts, in Harmony with the Prefect

The remaining snow has melted, and the ice has thawed. Spring’s beauty gradually enters the spaces between the terraces and towers. The traveler has yet to fulfill his wish to make his way to the capital, while spring has already come down from the heavens to the human world.

Besides, there is always wine in the cup; how could the hills lack plum blossoms? If the prefect and I were not as close as brothers, who would so wholeheartedly value someone as inept as me?

Gazing at the Moon After the Snow Clears, in Harmony with the Prefect

The mountains after the snow are capped in white, and frost lies across the courtyard. The moonlight is cold and clear, as if the full moon were gently rolling across the night sky. The sorrows of travel leave me far less joyful than I once was; though the moon shines brightly tonight, its light deepens my solitude.

Bamboo beside the curtains casts a scattering of fine shadows. A cool breeze passes through the towers and pavilions, bringing a lingering freshness. I regret that I have no fine poem to answer this lovely scene. I can only sit alone in sorrow, unable even to sleep for dreaming.

Ascending the Tower After the Snow Clears, in Harmony with the Prefect

The lofty pavilion rises a hundred feet. At dawn, a light snow has just cleared, and I gaze out at leisure, struck by the scene’s vivid clarity. Distant mountains stretch across the evening haze, rising and falling; beyond the sparse woods, the waters appear by turns faint and far off, then bright and clear.

A thousand strands of sunset spread across the horizon, while two or three fading notes from a horn drift on the wind. This moment and this scene deserve to be painted; I fear only that the painter’s brush and ink may not be exquisite enough.

As a Guest in a Foreign Land on New Year’s Eve

Thinking of this same time next year, with countless hours still before me, I may as well pour another cup of fine wine for now. The handle of the Northern Dipper points toward the Ox position, and the year is nearly spent. Time flies like an arrow, urging us on; spring is about to return.

There is no need to deliberately trouble myself over worldly relationships. For the most part, my spirits have already grown cold and gray. Empty fame has long since drifted beyond the clouds; besides, time passes in an instant, driving us forward.

A New Year’s Poem in Reply to Magistrate Shang, sixth year of Jiayou (1061; Shao Yong, aged fifty-one)

My aging body, a guest in a foreign land, meets the New Year. Thinking of the years that have slipped away, I know my hair will soon turn gray at the temples. When the wine is gone, my heart returns to solitude; after the gathering, my mood seems all the more listless.

The scenery of wind and moon at Wangxian Tower is especially lovely beneath the clear sky. In the night, the green curtains and latticed windows seem distant and still. Facing it all, I sit dumbly, like wood or stone. Such a scene cannot help but leave one quietly heartsick.

In Reply to the Poem on Climbing the Prefectural Tower and Gazing at the Mountains by the Attendant Wang

Four worthy men once paused here to look out; even after a thousand years, those who come later cannot help but feel ashamed by comparison. The famous men of the world cannot escape worldly affairs. If there is nothing in one’s heart to which one can devote oneself, then living in the mountains is in vain.

The rise and fall of past and present offer a way to observe the world; principle is revealed in how ruler and minister advance or withdraw from one another. If one possesses extraordinary talent, one ought to have an extraordinary purpose for it. Otherwise, one can only waste a lifetime, left idle as the days pass.

Four Poems on the Temple of the Four Elders of Mount Shang

The Qin dynasty lost its ability to govern the realm, and at once the land ran red with blood. Everyone in the realm sought a worthy ruler, yet no one could truly claim these men. Heroes were contending with one another for all under Heaven, and no one yet knew who would ultimately take the imperial throne.

The True Man of Bashang—that is, Liu Bang, the founder of Han—had already departed. The four elders looked at one another in silence. Then, slowly, they said: “The realm’s rightful ruler is determined by Heaven. We may as well follow Chao Fu and Xu You and withdraw into seclusion, refusing office.”

Han Gaozu treated people arrogantly and, in the end, could not bend the four elders to his will. The Crown Prince invited them with humble words, and only then were they willing to come forth from seclusion. Though already old, the four still accomplished a great deed. Their noble integrity shines to this day like the stars and the sun and moon.

After Tian Heng went out to sea, he could still attract worthy men to his side. The Four Elders of Mount Shang traveled to Chang’an, a journey of barely more than a hundred li. Liu Bang enabled the four men to earn this lasting fame and display such integrity. From this, we know that he truly was the genuine king chosen by Heaven.

After Tian Heng went out to sea, he was still able to achieve something. The Four Elders of Shangshan—four men who had withdrawn to live in seclusion on Shangshan to avoid the Qin—traveled more than a hundred li to reach Chang’an. Through their virtue, they assisted Emperor Gaozu of Han, bringing lasting fame to all four of them. From this, one can see that Gaozu was indeed a true ruler.

Thanking Magistrate Song, an Assistant Official, for Sending My Household Register to Tianzhu Mountain, in the Original Rhyme

A new household register has arrived from Shangyu, and it fills me with a joy I have rarely known, like meeting again after a long separation. I am especially glad that I had already obtained the purple fungus, a plant often gathered and eaten by recluses, and a symbol of life in seclusion. Tianzhu Mountain, in the southwest, seems to reach up to the sky.

My original wish was to fulfill a subject’s duty and assist the ruler. In the imperial capital, the seasons turn in their courses, like the handle of the Northern Dipper rotating with spring. Now that I can live at the foot of Tianzhu Mountain, I need not worry that anyone will come to disturb me at night.

I will no longer offer counsel to the ruler or take part in matters of life and death. Instead, I will embrace the mountain mists and learn the life of a recluse. I thank Magistrate Song for reserving the place of honor for me and inviting me once more, a hermit of Tianzhu Mountain.

Mountain mists gather into a single expanse, veiling layer upon layer of drifting clouds. Tianzhu Mountain stands solitary, lofty, and quiet—a fitting place to withdraw and cultivate the Dao. From now on, I plan to return to the mountains and forests; there is no need to seek a way forward in the human world.

I have achieved little, and for many years have lived among the hills and forests like a deer. Thanks to the magistrate’s great kindness, I have been entered into the household register. May my name endure alongside the peaks of Tianzhu Mountain, for ages to come.

Sent to Magistrate Song

When I first returned to Luoyang, there was much to attend to, and an easy, unhurried life seemed beyond my reach. Now, however, I feel at ease and free, as though I had returned to the proud, carefree days of the Four Elders of Shangshan.

Waking from a Nap in the Small Garden

Beyond the garden gate, the landscape seems like a deep mountain retreat; here, one’s natural nature can truly return. The bustle of official carriages and horses lies outside the garden, while the sun and moon move freely between Heaven and Earth.

Water in the garden gives the pavilions a lively air; when there is no wind, the plants too rest in quiet ease. Spring birds break the tranquil dream, singing melodiously among the branches.

Three Poems on Excursions in the Mountains

After living so long amid the bustle of the crowded streets, I naturally grew weary. As soon as I stepped outside the city gate, the view opened up before me. I wandered through Longmen and took in all the scenery of the Yi River valley. I listened for a long while to the flow of the Daughter River, a waterway in the Luoshui region.

When I climbed Tai Shi Temple, I saw the rising sun tint the horizon red. After gazing toward the Altar of Heaven, I saw white clouds rise. I have already resolved to stay with my companions on the path of cultivation; I will not change my mind over petty gains and losses.

As spring draws to a close, it is just the right time to climb high and gaze into the distance. The heart and the weather alike are clear and harmonious. At night I drifted by boat along the Yi River as the wind shifted; when I reached the stream’s entrance, the moon rose and I lowered a fishing line.

I let poetic inspiration give full voice to my feelings, while my frail body can only be sustained by wine. Life is brief, and little time remains under the sun and moon. Why spend these limited days always frowning?

When joyful, act with the moment; when troubled, withdraw. In general, knowing how to follow one’s lot is the way a man should conduct himself. Small achievements cannot be guaranteed by human effort. Better to savor the pleasures of cloud and mountain to the full and let the heart be at ease.

Do not fear the distant places wreathed in mist and cloud. Go there to wander while your strength has not yet waned. In this life, I ask only to be content at heart—what could bring greater joy? When wealth and glory reach their height, they may instead bring sorrow.

Peaches in Two Colors

Some peach blossoms seem touched with vermilion, others dusted with white powder; each has its own beauty. Both colors are vivid and lovely, yet distinct. They seem like a pair of sisters from the Jasper Pearl Palace, an immortal palace of Daoist lore, both willing to wed the spring breeze.

A Song on Climbing Mountains and Facing Waters

On the mountain stand lofty peaks; in the water surge rolling waves. Where even shoes can scarcely tread, how could a small boat make its way? It is not that the mountains and waters lack the principles that the benevolent and wise delight in appreciating; rather, few people climb…