《伊川击壤集》Vol. 3

Viewed from afar at a place to sit, clouds and flowing water encircle the hem of one’s robe across the level fields.

On the Fourteenth, an Inscription at the East Pavilion of Fuchang County Office

Autumn lends the banks of the Luo River an exceptional beauty. A light shower has just passed, leaving the road seeming slightly sloped. The county office lies hidden in the depths of bamboo groves beside the water, while homes are scattered across mountain hollows wrapped in mist.

After the frost, patches of red appear among the layered leaves. Beyond the clear sky, a few streaks of rosy cloud unfurl. The streams, deep in some places and shallow in others, are bright and clear; the peaks rise and fall, green and rugged.

Birds choose trees for their nests, then fly away and return from afar. Clouds have no intentions of their own, and drift farther still. However great one’s worldly fame and position, things often fail to go as hoped; those of outstanding talent are often the subject of both regret and admiration.

Life is brief, yet the passing years must still be cherished. As age advances and the body grows weaker, there is no need to force oneself to show off one’s strength. Build a dwelling beside these mountain rocks and enjoy true happiness—a happiness without end.

On the Fifteenth, Reflections on Leaving Fuchang

The Lianchang Palace, a Tang dynasty garden and palace complex, has fallen into ruin, while the Chang River still flows. The past is gone and times have changed; many stories have reached us only through repeated retelling. A desolate shrine stands beside the river, its origins now impossible to ascertain. The old locust trees are bare and withered, while the bamboo soars toward the sky.

That Evening, Lodging at the Foot of Mount Jinping

The moon usually seems bright and lovely, yet never as full as it is tonight. It is as though Su’e, the moon goddess, has eased her long-held sorrow and come especially to meet us before Mount Jinping.

On the Sixteenth, Replying in the Rhyme of a Poem Sent by the Magistrate of Fuchang County

How rarely one finds someone with whom to share understanding and delight in matters of principle. The ancients said that the hardest thing is to find someone who truly understands you. My writing does not cater to officials or worldly people; my honor and disgrace have nothing to do with a life spent in retreat among mountains and rivers.

Our conversation was careful and penetrating, concerned throughout with the principles of things. Our words were free of artifice, revealing natural sincerity at every turn. Should I one day associate with friends in the Luoyang Literary Society, I will have one more neighbor to add to the roster.

On the Seventeenth, at the Foot of Mount Jinping, Thanking Zhang and Sun, Two Friends from the City, for Their Gift of Tea

The mountains seem dyed with blue, and the ripples on the water appear dyed as well. Once the mood for wandering takes hold, it is hard to restrain. Carrying the tea given to me by my two friends, I boil water and prepare tea whenever I reach the misty depths of the mountains.

An Evening View from Shou’an County

There is no need to lament life’s good fortune or disappointments; for now, listen all day to the murmur of flowing water. In the distance, a lone wild goose flies away through the dusk. Amid the haze over the fields, two white egrets return across the sky.

Graceful trees line the garden beneath blue-green rocks, while lovely peaks surround the emerald county town. People say that only those who take fame and profit lightly will pause their hurried steps long enough to come here.

On the eighteenth, I crossed Qianyang Slope to the south and came to the grave at Yichuan.

A lonely mound, three feet high, rests against a mountain a hundred feet tall. The loving family who raised me lies within this grave. Such affection can never be fully repaid, even in death. At dusk I lingered, unable to leave, but in the end I returned.

Thinking of the Cheng father and sons, and the brothers, I sent them a poem.

Each year, as the Mid-Autumn Festival draws near, I delight in roaming through beautiful mountains and waters. This time, because I must hurry back to see you, I have had to shorten my journey. I cannot stay long at Yichuan.

The weather is just as it was that day before, and the mountains and rivers seem unchanged. Yet I came alone and leave alone. Who could understand this feeling?

On the nineteenth, I returned to Luoyang and visited Longmen along the way.

When traveling to and from Yichuan, I often pass Longshan. Each time, my mind feels at ease. Do not say that a person’s state of mind has nothing to do with their surroundings: how could anyone immersed in fame and profit escape their burden?

The world needs no adornment to catch the eye; its scenes are always revealing something new. Only the breeze and moonlight on the steps before my gate remain as they were. Their clear radiance still belongs to those who live at leisure.

I inscribed a poem at Longmen.

These cliffs were shaped and fused by the workings of nature; who knows how many ages they have endured? Dark, broken precipices and stone walls hold in the mist, as though wrapped in sorrow. When Yu the Great tamed the floods, he split the mountains so the Yi River could flow between them. The sound of the water at the Eight-Section Shoals echoes in my ears; the whole river valley lies reflected within the tower. Travelers, do not gaze upon the scene and lean on the railing in excessive lament. Countless heroes, in the end, grow old with white hair.

Who raised the long sword and slew the great wyrm? Once the wyrm was slain, the sword too was returned to its sheath. Its claws and tail wound like mountains; its fearsome horns and teeth seemed to have congealed into Mount Song. Wounded in two places, its body became steep cliffs of blue-green stone; its blood flowed eastward, turning into raging waves. If even such a strange creature could not preserve its head and body, then let those who sow discord and spread slander take heed: do not keep clamoring without end.

Viewing the Yi River from the stone tower at Longmen.

For several days now, I have often strolled at ease among mountains, rivers, clouds, and rosy skies, leaning on the railing to gaze far and wide at the scenery before me. The hundred-foot tower seems to link up with the mountain paths along which birds fly, while the whole river stretches away in mist and waves, as though it belonged entirely to the monastery.

Only with an untroubled heart can one truly feel joy. Only then does one understand that the honors of office are nothing to boast about. To visit such scenery on a day free from duties is itself a reminder that happiness has no end.

On the twentieth, I went into town to meet old friends

At this time every year, I go wandering among mountains, rivers, and clouds. People never think I am too fond of pleasure. When I return, I tell family and friends about these quiet, lovely scenes. Yet I must still speak with care, lest my words bring trouble. This is the concern expressed by “sealing the lips three times”—a metaphor for speaking and acting with caution.

I walked by Tianjin on the evening of the twenty-second; a poem followed the next day

Last night, I, an old man by the stream, went for a walk at Tianjin, a ferry or riverbank in the Luoyang area. I walked all the way there, stopping several times to stand and look. On the Luo River, all I could hear was the sound of oars cutting through the water; the west wind seemed to do nothing but hurry travelers on their way.

In the cold rain, the mountains and rivers looked bleak and dim. Towers and pavilions stood at varying heights, veiled by evening clouds. The scene is plainly before our eyes, but who truly understands its meaning? As the time of the Frost’s Descent approaches, the wild geese come to rest here.

The twenty-fifth: people.

In the cold rain, the mountains and rivers looked bleak and dim. Towers and pavilions stood at varying heights, veiled by evening clouds. The scene is plainly before our eyes, but who truly understands its meaning? As the time of the Frost’s Descent approaches, the wild geese come to rest here.

On the twenty-fifth, I matched the rhyme of Assistant Director Wu Chuanzheng of the Left Treasury in response to his poem

The scenery around Shangyang Palace is lovely and well suited to reading. Beyond the world of visible forms and images, there is also a level, open road. The beautiful season draws me back to the fragrant-grass ferry, and the refreshing wind carries me over Lake Dongting.

If I did not often journey to the Red Waters, a legendary fairyland or wondrous realm, how could I enjoy the pleasures of the “Yellow Sprout,” a term in Daoist internal alchemy for the vital essence or elixir cultivated in practice? Do not think there is nothing to do around Tianjin. Even in a quiet place, one must still devote oneself to cultivation.

(Wu Chuanzheng’s poem said, “From now on, the scenery south of Tianjin shall not all belong to Shao Yaofu.” That is why this poem includes these lines.)

On the twenty-ninth, I matched the rhyme of Assistant Magistrate Lu Gangshu of Luoyang in response to his poem

A light evening rain had just stopped when I happened to ride beneath Phoenix Tower. I imagine a talent like Xie Chen’s—praised in the Jin dynasty as “a branch of cassia from Guilin, a piece of jade from Kunshan”—would understand. Fortunately, I have not grown distant from the clear, open-minded spirit of Le Guang, a Jin-dynasty gentleman known for his broad outlook.

We have been apart for some time. Have you heard any news from the turn of summer to autumn? By the lamplight at home, what books have you been reading? Sadly, I have no gift to offer the worthy Master Cheng, a sage such as Cheng Hao or Cheng Yi. I can only return to my humble home with a heart full of regret.

We have been apart for the whole summer and autumn. What news have you heard? When you have time, what books do you read by lamplight? It is a pity that I have no gift to send to Master Cheng (the brothers Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi, Song dynasty Neo-Confucian scholars). With a heavy heart, I can only return alone to my dilapidated home.

The collation note in the recorded edition says that the lines “Jinping zheng yu Xi’nan dui,” “Tari congyou zizi chuan,” “Niao yin ze mu fei huan yuan,” “Yaoyuan ming’ai guhong qu,” “Xie Shen pianyu zhi neng yi,” and “Tuzi juanjuan fan bi lu” have different wording in the Bi Heng printed edition or the Siku Quanshu edition.

Scroll Six

Written on Someone Else’s Behalf and Sent to Zhou Shiyan, Magistrate of Pu’an in Jianzhou, a Grain Intendant

There is no need to sigh constantly over the hardships of office. Consider that climbing high always begins from low ground. A gentleman understands when to advance and when to withdraw, when to bend and when to stretch; only then does he act according to principle. We Confucian scholars value knowing how to advance and withdraw at the right time, in keeping with the circumstances.

Now that Tao Yuanming has resigned and returned to seclusion, where can he go? If you wish to retire in the future, there will still be time. I deeply regret that the scenery around the Yi River and Mount Song is boundless. Even in such a beautiful place, one should still seek out worthy talent anew.

From the Two Shu regions to the Three Wu regions is a distance of more than ten thousand li. Only last year you traveled north; this year you hurry west.

The Jianmen Pass rises high, as though far from the light of the sun; the rugged Qin River plain cuts off the road to the capital. When I think of you from afar, facing the wind, I wonder whether you can still drink a cup of wine.

Another Quatrain

It is once again the season when old friends often visit, and late autumn has come, with plants and trees fading. Holding a handful of chrysanthemums and pouring a cup of wine, I watch an old friend travel west. Another year will pass before we meet again.

In Harmony with the Poem Presented by Zhao Chongde, Secretary in the Palace Secretariat

People say the world is treacherous, and that serving in office is like wearing a tall official’s cap: one can hardly remain at ease. Yet I cherish my own life, far from the official world and the clamor of worldly affairs. My rustic manner is truly unsuited to running about at court; a quiet, untroubled life is what suits me as I visit Yang Liao.

Though I have no particular method, I have written more than a thousand poems. Though I am not wealthy, I have cloud-wreathed mountains for company and a gourd of wine. I have long regretted that you traveled east by carriage; I fear that in the years ahead we may rarely share the moonlight and breeze together.

In Harmony with the Poem Presented by Gentleman Wang Buyi of the Central Secretariat

I have lived in Luoyang for twenty years. The many changes in the people and affairs before my eyes, I let follow their own course. My appearance is as plain and rustic as plants and trees; how could I endure placing myself amid worldly affairs? My heart is as still as a bronze bell or a ritual vessel; it is not merely empty.

I have received your generous instruction and felt its force to the marrow; I am even more astonished by your poetic imagination, moving as a piece of fine jade. Zhuang Zhou need not say that my name and substance do not match. The truth is simply that I lack talent, and so, like the monkeys in the story of “three in the morning and four at night,” I curry favor to please everyone.

In Reply to Professor Wei’s Gift

In this enlightened age, writing shines high like the sun and moon. Though I lack talent, I am fortunate to enjoy the ease of a bountiful year. I have traveled through Mount Taishi and Mount Shaoshi, and seen both the Yi River and the Luo River.

Even Mencius, in ancient times, struggled to make his reasoning clear. Today there is no one like Yan Hui; it is easier, perhaps, to aspire to be a worthy man. When reading, I often reach passages that probe the roots of things, and worry that you gentlemen will question me about the deepest principles.

In Reply to Deputy Director Wu Chongqing’s Gift

Neither being nor nonbeing: this is the Dao’s native ground. Between it and the myriad things of the world there is no more than a hair’s breadth. Everyone can reach it, yet I have not managed to do so. The myriad things themselves obstruct no one; who, then, could obstruct them?

Once it is lost, even those closest to us become like enemies. Once it is attained, coarse tea and plain food taste like delicacies. Some principles have remained beyond people’s grasp for thousands of years. To understand their subtle workings, we must look to the skilled swimmer by the Lüliang Waterfall, drawing on the story in the Zhuangzi of swimmers who follow the water’s current.

In Reply to Secret Instruction Officer Sun Chuanshi’s Gift

My home lies south of Tianjin, and I am often honored by your visits, when you graciously travel here by carriage. When I first retired, I thought I could at last live without restraint. But after a long period of idleness, my learning and understanding have instead grown rusty.

Better to retreat to the cloud-wreathed mountains and let my books go to waste than to leave my achievements regretted in the pages of history. The sincerity in my heart is difficult to express in words. I only hope to be like an empty boat, untouched by attachment to things outside myself.

Composed to the Rhyme of the Gathering to Celebrate Longevity in the Snow at the Garden of Chen Chengbo, Court Writer

In the jade garden, like a realm of immortals, all the flowers took on a fresh appearance overnight. The sights on the Jasper Terrace, the legendary dwelling of immortals, seemed transformed into white jade spread across the ground. The city’s bamboo-leaf wine became all the more popular, while snowflakes drifted through the gathering like willow catkins, giving the scene the air of spring in full bloom.

This gathering was like the elegant assembly of scholars at Liang Garden; all who came were men of letters. Who would have thought that a goddess, divine as an immortal, still dwells on Mount Gushe? Hopes for a good harvest rest on more than a thousand granaries. Even with snow already a foot deep, we still hope it will fall often.

Composed to the Rhyme of the Gathering in the Garden of the Bureau of History with Chen Chengbo, Court Writer

Bamboo surrounds the tall pines, and the pines in turn grow around the pavilion. Coming here, one feels refreshed from head to toe. Snow rests on the tips of the plum branches, where the buds are just beginning to open; water meets ice, sending up a thunderous roar.

The year is drawing to a close, time is slipping away, and I cannot help but sigh at its passing. Half-drunk, I can scarcely restrain my feelings and thoughts. Who still pities that former chancellor, now left with nothing but an empty reputation? And how can my principles and convictions be certain to find their way into practice?

Harmonizing with Zhang Xian of Kuixia: Reflecting on the Past at Baidi City

Cao Cao could not be allowed to hold Xuchang unchallenged; without Liangzhou and Yizhou, it would have been hard to contend for the empire. With the realm divided in three, warfare was perilous as wind and thunder; entrenched in the southwest, one’s position was also formidable.

Travelers of later times casually point out the old events, while historians’ praise and blame amount to no more than words on paper. If those who come after cannot understand the forces behind rise and fall, let them look at the old battlefield in the middle of the Yangtze River.

A Song of Ease (first year of Xining, 1068; Shao Yong, aged fifty-eight)

As a scholar, I am fortunate to have been born in a peaceful age; my home, too, is in Luoyang, the capital. Empty fame and profit are not what I seek. Where in the world are there no clear streams and green hills?

Choose a place of beautiful scenery, and you should go in search of its loveliness; choose companions whose interests and purposes accord with your own. Enjoying leisure is the way of those who live at ease; it is not the same as squeezing moments of rest out of a busy life.

With a body six feet tall, a life of contentment lies right before me. As the seasons turn, how could I bear to let such fine days go to waste? In the mild, cool months of the second and eighth lunar months, invite a few friends of principle.

Prepare wine and food according to your means; simple fare is perfectly fine. Open your heart to conversation and laughter, and let your nature flow freely. I urge you: live at ease in this way, and even in old age you need never grow weary of it.

Do not let your righteous spirit feed sorrow. Even if heroes die in bitter frustration, the years of the world go on. Though fine steeds gallop along the road, phoenixes still soar at the edge of the sky.

Three thousand guests hone their talents; the land’s hundred and two strategic passes stand firm behind their natural defenses, their armies’ blades held ready. In the end, it is all no more than a spring dream. What else, then, is there to grieve over?

Waking from sleep by the southern window, I see the spring hills, their colors veiled in a hazy mist. A pair of clear eyes cannot escape a thousand miles of scenery; yet in a hundred years of life, it is rare to meet someone who is truly at ease.

Some feelings scatter like drifting willow catkins, flying freely without regard to high or low; the heart wanders like a silken thread, floating to and fro. I even fear the quiet birds may sense what I feel, so one comes to a branch and pours out a lilting song.

Who entrusted the workings of creation—the forces of nature’s cycles and the changes of all things—to the east wind? Once placed in its hands, the outcome is hard to foresee. Even in the year’s final, bitter cold, one must make plans early. When the first month of the new year arrives, how can one expect results at once? The willow tips sway softly in the warmth; the plum blossoms secretly welcome spring, their petals half revealed in red. How can I recover the feelings we once shared? Back then, I still wore light clothes and roamed freely among the young.

Song of Peach and Plum Blossoms

Peach and plum blossoms bloom in profusion on the branches, stirred by the wind; when it blows past, they fall in scattered showers. Sorrow and joy come by turns, always stirring the heart; both grief and delight are written across the brow.

When the Tai hexagram, which signifies free passage and good fortune, reaches its height, it gives way to the Gu hexagram, which signifies decay that must be set right. When the Pi hexagram, which signifies obstruction, reaches its extreme, it turns into the Sui hexagram, which signifies adapting and following. People today should not simply envy the goodness of the ancients; it is only that the experiences of life come later to those living now.

A Heartbroken Song

I do not know what iron was hammered and ground into a needle. Once made, the needle pierces straight into the heart. I imagine the human heart is only an inch across, yet the thrust seems to pierce it deeply.

Grieving My Second Younger Brother, Who Passed Away Without Illness

The deep bond between brothers cannot be forgotten. Even having one’s heart cut out would not compare with this grief. In the past, when hardship came, you helped me; now I, the youngest of the brothers, must bear this alone.

Brothers once stood together like two pairs of boots, but we can no longer grow side by side like flowers joined on one stem. The wild geese once flew away calling to one another; now their ranks are broken. From this day on, whenever the moon is bright and the breeze gentle, I will stand by the eastern hedge and gaze at the desolate scene before me, feeling only a grief that rends the heart.

After my second younger brother was laid to rest beyond the eastern hedge, I read the poem he had written for the Double Ninth Festival: “My clothes are white as the moon this month; the flowers are yellow as in years past. I would ask what has become of things by the eastern hedge, but all there has grown distant and hard to find.” His words sound as though they foretold what was to come.

Now, with my heart broken, where by the eastern hedge can I go to look for you? From this day on, all is silent by the eastern hedge. The times when we walked side by side are gone; now, as I stand alone in mourning and sorrow, no moment has ever been as desolate as this.

My tears have run dry, yet my grief has no end. Before I have even reached the Yellow Springs, my sorrow is already profound. I do not know when this pain will finally fade. The affection my brother and I shared in harmony for thirty-two years is truly impossible to forget.

Another poem

My elder brother was named Yong, and my younger brother, Mu. We lived together in harmony, bound by deep affection. Whether we went out or stayed at home, one of us would always remain to serve our parents. We raised our children according to our parents’ wishes.

Our kind father lived to the age of seventy-nine. The four young children were often at his side, playing. Back then we would wear brightly colored clothes to make him laugh, and the family hall was filled with warmth and joy.

Father died suddenly the year before last, and this year my younger brother too passed away before his time. Now I alone serve our mother and care for the four children. Each day, we sit before the table at the spirit altar, facing one another in tears.

I do not know how many thousands of feet long my sorrow is, or how many thousands of bushels my tears would fill. My heart is broken and my tears are spent, yet nothing can be done. How could I ever repay the love and care we once received?

Another quatrain

The bond between brothers was deep, and the days we lived in harmony stretched on. If you want to know when I will finally forget, wait until the grass on your grave has grown wild.

Remembering my deceased younger brother as I listen to the cuckoo

I still remember how, early last summer, you and I listened together to the cuckoo’s cry. This year the cuckoo has returned, and the season is still early summer, just as it was last year.

The bird seems to understand the depth of human feeling. Before one call has faded, another rises, full of sorrow. My heart has already broken apart with its cries. Where, then, has my spirit flown with this bird?

Written at my deceased younger brother’s funeral hall

You came into this world after me, yet left it before me. When you first set out toward death, you showed not the slightest hesitation.

Walking at dusk in the southern part of the South Garden, remembering my deceased younger brother

The grass in the southern part of the South Garden is soft as a carpet. I walk in the evening breeze, refreshed and free of dust. I cannot share this pleasure with you, and I imagine a cloud drifting across the sky.

A person comes into the world alone, like a cloud that drifts here and there; truly, I do not know why.

Lamenting my own fate

Heaven has treated all things equally from ancient times to the present, sheltering them all. Yet my brother and I were bound by deep affection, and now I have suddenly lost him. Over the past five or seven years, one calamity after another has struck our family. Now I am nearly sixty, and I still often suffer from headaches.

Ordinary people cannot help yielding to worldly feelings, and their private calculations are truly hard to leave to servants and young attendants alone. Where could one find the raft left behind by an immortal? Then, amid the clouds and waters of the Yi River, one could freely enjoy endless pleasures.

Written for Myself in the Year of Earth-Monkey

Though old, I still want to beat a clay basin and sing; perhaps this means I have not lost the harmony I was born with. The “Darkening of the Light” hexagram in the Book of Changes speaks of holding back one’s brilliance when circumstances are obscure. But if, as the “Innocence” hexagram says, disaster comes without cause, what can one do?

Time flies overhead like an arrow, while the affairs of this world, tangled as hemp, keep passing before my eyes. If I do not make plans for myself now, the losses I suffer later will only be greater.

Written on Another’s Behalf and Sent to Zhao Chongdao, Academician of the Northern Sea Secretariat (1069, the second year of Xining; Shao was fifty-nine)

Since my family lost a loved one, I have stopped composing poems and fu. Now, for the moment, I shall sing a song into the wind. Parting is easy, meeting again is hard, and the feelings in my heart will not settle. What thoughts arise when one climbs high and gazes into the distance?

A hundred years of life are rare, and time cannot be reclaimed. A thousand miles apart, there is all the more to worry about. The wine vessels at today’s banquet truly evoke the style of Kong Rong, governor of the Northern Sea, entertaining his guests. And you, with your generous spirit—who could compare with you?

In Reply, Following the Rhyme of Assistant Minister Wang Buyi’s Gift

I do not let sorrow spoil the lovely scenes before me. Time races past my eyes like a turning wheel. I am fortunate to know the joy of contentment and keeping to my proper place. But if I try to arrange life so that everything is settled and secure, I fear there will be no end to it.

After a meal, I sometimes stroll through the garden of sweet flag. When I wake from sleep with nothing to do, I visit the monks. The scenery of wind and moon around Tianjin Bridge surpasses that elsewhere; I often think of making tea there with you.

Song of the Humane

The humane are hard to find, yet their thoughts and actions follow a constant way. Be careful in your conduct each day; do not grow careless merely because nothing is amiss at present.

Those who scramble for shortcuts often conceal sinister schemes. Leave a little unsaid, and words have a longer aftertaste. Eat too much of what pleases the palate, and illness may follow; take too much pleasure in what gratifies you, and trouble may arise. Better to guard against illness beforehand than seek medicine after falling ill.

Two Poems: Guests Urged to Drink as the First Plum Blossoms Open in the East Studio

I love these plum blossoms even more than the early-blooming ones. A few branches have opened first, and I linger before the flowers, admiring them. If all the plum blossoms in Lingnan had faded before the twelfth lunar month, how could the people of Luoyang enjoy them after the first month?

The fragrance of plum blossoms has just drifted from the valley on the warm breeze. Their colors mingle with the fragrance of fine wine, wavering above the fermenting mash. If my guests can understand the spring spirit’s intent, they should not let this chance to gather in the spring light pass them by.

Warm spring light fills the city of Luoyang. Do not decline the pleasure of wandering and celebrating; let life be lived with ease. Treasure the gathering of worthy friends and laugh with open hearts; cherish all the more the bright sight of plum blossoms before our eyes.

Besides, the old mountain man—whether the speaker or a friend named in the poem—is in high spirits, and the fragrant wine is especially inviting. If we do not get drunk over our cups now, when will we? When else, in this age of peace, can we drink our fill?

Warm spring light fills the city of Luoyang. Do not decline the pleasure of wandering and celebrating; let life be lived with ease. Treasure the gathering of worthy friends and laugh with open hearts; cherish all the more the bright sight of plum blossoms before our eyes.

Besides, the old mountain man is in high spirits, and the fragrant wine is especially inviting. If we do not get drunk over our cups now, when will we?

A Long Ode to the Pure Breeze

Among the forces that bring balance and freshness to Heaven and Earth, none is cooler than the pure breeze. It arrives in season, dispels illness, and brings a good harvest to the year.

It rises from tiny duckweed by the water’s edge and blows in from beside verdant trees. When it happens to be a night of bright moonlight, the breeze enters an old friend’s home.

Dense leaves sway like layered curtains; deep red flowers dance in the wind like women in fine dress. Two or three notes from a flute sound in the distance, while before our eyes ten thousand willow branches droop.

The breeze carries the delicate strains of the zither and lute, and bears the clear fragrance of orchids and sweetflag. A pavilion overlooks distant waters, while the windows and railings stand close to slender bamboo groves.

In high summer, it dispels the stifling heat; after a rain clears, it brings the coolness of evening. It brushes lightly over green lotus and water chestnut leaves, then slips gently through thin clothing.

The wind sends sleeves fluttering like waves in motion; on the water, glittering ripples shimmer like wine swirling in a cup. Idle sorrow cannot linger, while distant, quiet thoughts readily drift aloft.

The pure breeze fills one with delight, as if riding a celestial steed; it also clears and refreshes the mind, like drinking sweet sugarcane juice. Before our eyes, it is as though we are visiting the immortal realm of Langyuan; among the seats, it is as if we are boating on the Xiao and Xiang rivers.

The pure breeze cannot be bought with money—how could it be measured out by the bushel? Its comings and goings follow the natural De (Power); why would it need a storehouse to keep it?

There is no need to fear being annexed and plundered by the powerful, nor to worry about being harried by bandits. Take these things as sources of joy, and sorrow will never find a place in your heart.

Long Lament for the Drooping Willows

There are two kinds of drooping willow: some have long branches, others short. Only willows with long, hanging branches are especially suited to quiet scenery.

When spring is deep, the courtyard lies secluded; at dusk, pavilions and terraces are veiled in twilight. The willows cannot resist being enveloped layer upon layer in mist as thin as smoke, and can only watch helplessly as daylight slowly sinks in the west.

The light rain has just stopped when a cool breeze suddenly rises. Willows grow along both sides of Zhangtai Street, and to the east and west of the huabiao pillars.

Their branches reach over the garden walls, meeting the eye at a glance; their long sprays brush above passersby and hang over the road. They are like light green ribbons fluttering in the breeze, or like faint golden threads.

The willow sprays sway in the wind, as though catkins were drifting through a clear sky, or threads were dancing in a warm breeze. Each strand tugs at the heart of one who must part from a loved one, while catkins fly into homes by the thousand.

The willow’s graceful form recalls Wang Gong’s refined elegance; its swaying figure, Zhao Feiyan’s light dance. Its slender beauty surpasses that of Zhang Xu, while its delicate softness seems as spare as Shen Yue.

The willow sprays are vividly green, trailing close to the ground; fine, long branches wind densely around the pond. They heighten the splendor of the flowers and spur the grass to grow more lushly.

Dense willow shade covers mountain lodges, while sparse shadows fall across wine banners. When a willow branch is broken off as a farewell gift, those who part often weep; some rein in their horses to linger, and the horses too cry out.

From among the willow shadows comes the creak of carts and horses departing; beneath the trees, wheels rumble as they return. In the dim evening haze, the willows seem desolate; beneath the slanting sun, their color fades to a faint wash.

To reach up and pluck a willow branch brings regret; what weighs most heavily on the heart is parting. Willows by the roadside grow old early, while those beside the water flourish first.

Cicadas begin to cry beyond the tower, and orioles sing again by the bridge. The willows block the view into the distance, to one’s irritation; their curved shape also resembles a woman’s painted brows, and lingers in the mind.

How many travelers have journeyed far? Who has ever tied a horse to these long willow branches? Frost leaves the willows looking worn and wan, yet next year they will once again droop, green and tender.

Long Lament for Falling Flowers

Set wine against blooming flowers in a contest: the more lavish the blossoms, the richer the wine. Flowers last at most ten days before they wither, while the wine has not yet run through a hundred jars.

Some fallen petals still cling to sleeves; those that tumble into wine cups remain lovely enough to stir the heart. Only the powder-winged butterflies are devoted to the flowers; the bees that flit from bloom to bloom are faithless.

When flowers fall from the garden wall, the scene loses some of its former splendor; when they land beside the path, they add a patch of red. Petals drift down in the deep courtyard, adorning the quiet curtains and window lattices.

One fears the fallen flowers will drift away with the flowing water, and fears too that distant winds will carry them elsewhere. The water may still turn and wind its way back, but the far-off wind will scatter the flowers in every direction.

Spring is drawing to a close, and fallen blossoms lie scattered across the garden. In the afterglow of the setting sun, the scene seems desolate. Though the pavilions and terraces still have a master, no trace remains of the carriages and horses that once came and went.

In the palace days of old, An Lushan’s rebels stormed Chang’an, and Emperor Xuanzong fled with Yang Guifei. Amid the turmoil of war, Shi Chong too was besieged. On Mawei Slope, Xuanzong and his consort could hardly bear to part; in the Golden Valley Garden, disaster struck Shi Chong without warning.

Cao Zhi wrote heartfelt verse, and the dream of King Xiang and the goddess has ended. To tell these stories as though they were searches for the goddess of the Luo River or dreams of the goddess of Mount Wu is merely to force an interpretation onto them and pass along empty tales.

The swallows’ tale of grievance remains, but the orioles’ messages have fallen silent. If moss could turn into copper coins, willow strands could surely mend what has been worn. Faced with all this, one can only gaze sorrowfully toward the master of creation and lament nature’s coldness and desolation. Spring is allowed to flourish to its heart’s content, yet it is not permitted to linger, even for a moment.

How could the heart bear to order these scenes swept away? One longs to hold them back, but every means has been exhausted. Their strange fragrance seemed to seep into the marrow; their peerless beauty once brought heroes to their knees. Even if someone boasts of turning heaven and earth around and earning merit that covers the world, what good would it do? Time has passed, and what is done cannot be done again.

Blossoming and withering seem opposed, yet flourishing and decline follow the same principle. Those who cannot see through Heaven’s workings are bound to remain troubled and restless.

A Long Chant for Fragrant Grass

Fragrant grass, do not grow again; fine wine, do not pour another cup. Yet if the grass will not stop growing, how could the wine cup ever come to rest?

After the rain, the pondside pavilion is quiet and serene; in the deep spring season, the little courtyard is especially still. Then, the curtains were half drawn; now, the wine has only just worn off.

The tender grass spreads thickly across the ground, soon growing into a soft, downy carpet. It sends the fading sun away and brings the faint chill of dawn.

It quietly sets off the sparse beauty of the flower village and idly adorns the secluded grace of the bamboo grove and mountain hollow. Shallow water moistens the grass beside the stream; spring plowing has not yet begun across the fields.

Let no splendid carriage roll over it, and no slender horse tread upon it. Entrusting this fragrant grass with boundless feeling, I gaze at it for a long while, overwhelmed by what stirs within me.

Climbing the high terrace, my brow has only just relaxed; standing in the tall tower, my view suddenly opens wide. Evening clouds hang low, tinged with blue, and distant mountains emerge as faint shadows.

Green fragrant grass reaches the inlets where mandarin ducks rest, and its lush color stretches along the riverbanks where willows trail. At nightfall, sails are lowered by the river; at dusk, boats lie moored across from the island.

A single note from the watchtower’s horn sounds, then a few notes from a shepherd boy’s flute drift over. Two egrets settle beside a sandbar; at the ferry crossing, a flock of geese startles into flight.

Where the plants grow thick, armies once set out to war; the road, now bordered by unbroken stretches of green, once carried messengers back and forth. It runs into the distance, winding past one post station after another, each of a different length.

The tomb of the First Emperor of Qin has gradually vanished beneath the earth, and the walled cities of Han emperors are overgrown with weeds. The old Bronze Sparrow Terrace, built by Cao Cao, lies in desolate ruin; once-prosperous Jinling has fallen into decay.

Mists veil the affairs of former dynasties, and dust and smoke blur the fame of those who came after. Cunning hares still hide in dead trees, and decaying grass can turn into fireflies.

Even if the vegetation were cut away, how could it ever be cleared completely? Those post stations, each of a different length, still stand beside the road.

The tomb of the First Emperor of Qin has gradually vanished beneath the earth, and the walled cities of Han emperors are overgrown with weeds. The old Bronze Sparrow Terrace lies in desolate ruin; once-prosperous Jinling has fallen into decay.

Mists veil the affairs of former dynasties, and dust and smoke blur the fame of those who came after. Cunning hares still hide in dead trees, and decaying grass can turn into fireflies.

Even if every plant were cut down, how could the land be cleared for good? No sooner has it been burned than it flourishes again. It can only conceal the great mound built from the bodies of the enemy dead; people still long for peace throughout the realm.

Long Song of Spring Waters

When spring arrives, the water naturally turns clear and green; when spring passes, its green hue fades with it. Clear water is no less lovely than green water, yet the color of spring water ultimately surpasses that of autumn.

Green springs from sunlight, while clarity seems to be found in the cold. Beyond its clarity, the water takes on a touch of freshness, making green water all the more delightful.

The thin ice has only just melted, and the fine rain has just stopped. The broad water stretches away, with new islets faintly visible; on the old sandbars, ripples of light shimmer.

Lotus and water-chestnut leaves hang low, still curled and unopened; young shoots of wild rice and bulrushes have already emerged. Water clover and water pepperwort are gradually growing, while the pondweeds and water celery have yet to grow thick.

In the warm sunlight, mandarin ducks bathe in the water; as the clouds disperse, kingfishers skim and glide over its surface. When the water lies calm, paired carp leap out; when the wind dies down, flocks of gulls play at ease.

People in western Shu compete to launch their pleasure boats, while those of eastern Ou, the ancient name for southeastern Zhejiang, race to build embankments. It is as though one has come upon the Peach Blossom Spring of Wuling once more, or as though someone by the Han River has picked up a jade pendant tossed to them—a gesture said to express affection.

The water flows slowly beneath the terrace and winds on along the embankment. In front of the railing, the surface has only just begun to ripple, while at the horizon it stretches farther and farther into the distance.

The overflowing current unsettles the heart, while the murmuring stream brings a sense of quiet. Distant mountains cannot stop the water’s flow, and neither can the bends of a far-off river hold it back.

In the second month, it flows past the creekside bridge and reaches the wild ferry crossings of the Three Wu, the ancient collective name for the Wu lands of Jiangnan. The two oars that once lay across the water are still there, as if waiting to bid farewell to that lone boat.

The painter has just set down his brush, while the poet leans against the upper floor, gazing into the distance. Willow catkins swirl above the Yangtze; as his gaze passes through them, the sorrow rising in his heart is still the sorrow of parting.

A Long Song on Flowers and the Moon

In my youth, I did nothing but bury myself in books, regarding all the joys of human life as foolish amusements. Now I would make up for what I missed, but find that my spirit and enthusiasm can no longer return to what they were in my younger days.

Whenever flowers bloom and the moon is full, the same feelings arise. How, then, should I dispel them? At such moments, if I had no poetry and wine for company, I would rather die with these feelings than wake to face them.

Beneath the bright moon, flowers seem especially radiant; in the light of the moon, rare blossoms gain still more luster. Immersed in the beauty of flowers and moonlight, I feel as though I were wandering freely through the immortal realm of Ruizhugong, the Palace of the Jewel Bud.

I worry that clouds may veil the moon, and that the wind may blow the blossoms down. Without poetry and wine to gather up and preserve this mood, letting such a moment pass would feel like a failure to honor the beautiful scene.

Fortunately, there are long poems to recite and clear wine to pour. With poetry and wine for company, I can keep meeting the flowers and the moon for years to come.

With flowers but no moon, I fear the blossoms will soon fade; with the moon but no flowers, I regret its loneliness. The moon’s regrets can only be voiced in poetry; the flowers’ sorrows can only be eased with wine.

Only when the moon’s resentment and the flowers’ sorrow have vanished do I understand that poetry and wine can indeed dispel these feelings. To spend some days at ease beneath the trees, free and unrestrained—is that not a refined pleasure?

Touring Shangqing Palace with Attendant Li, the Prefect

In the second month, spring fills Luoyang. Peach and plum blossoms bloom, forming screens of color. Flowers on high and low ground merge into a sweep of red, while the drooping willows rise even higher than the flowering branches.

At ease, I accompany the prefect out through the city gate, and together we visit Shangqing Palace on Mount Mang. I think of the grandeur of the emperor’s western tour in years gone by. Those sights can no longer be seen, and all day I face the wind in melancholy.

Requesting Bamboo for Flutes to Plant at the Residence of Li, the Junior Guardian

The wildflowers I planted carelessly have spread across the ground, yet I have never paid them much attention. But I have a particular fondness for bamboo, whose joints remain firm despite frost—especially since it can be made into a flute carved with ornamental patterns.

When the phoenix arrives, the bamboo will naturally bear fruit. And will not a flute that imitates the dragon’s call produce a clear, ringing sound? I, a man living quietly in retirement, would like to ask you for a few bamboo shoots to plant. If they come from your home, they will be all the more precious and honored.

Thinking of the Mountains

All I see before me are green mountains and white clouds. Yet on closer thought, they contain the boundless achievements of nature’s creative power. I still do not know where true happiness comes from. Can it really mean no more than having meat to eat when one is hungry?

A thousand clumsy poems could not express my sorrow, while a cup of fine wine seems to hold a springtime all its own. How long do the sun and moon last inside a wine jug? How many people caught up in the dusty world can it help pass their lives in peace?

I fear that though a person may be at leisure, the heart is not. If the heart were truly at ease, why would one have to live among cloud-wreathed mountains? And if one had truly gained freedom in one’s nature and feelings, why would one willingly entangle oneself in matters of gain and loss?

One’s actions are never guarded by deliberate taboos, and one’s words are no longer calculated at every turn. Who would have thought that joy could reach such a state: free as a heavenly steed, roaming at will and leaving no trace?

Song of Resentment at the Moon

It is not that I begrudge the cost; it is only that Chang’e, the legendary fairy of the Moon Palace, seems always to disappoint our hopes. The moon has barely risen, and dew still clings to the plants; it has only just become full, and already the sky is overcast.

I lean on the railing, then lean on it once more. I pour the fine wine once, then pour it again. I wish there were a chamber deep within the women’s quarters where the moon could be shut away. But at these moments, before and after, it stirs the heart so deeply.

Song of Sorrow for the Flowers

Three thousand palace women, dressed in splendid robes, all hope to win the ruler’s favor; each is beautiful and alluring. When the flowers first open, they are still delicate and pale; halfway open, they become dazzlingly bright.

Before the flowers’ hearts have opened, their fragrance has already drifted forth. Dew hangs from the petals, making them all the more lovely and tender. In the face of such a sight, how many feelings rise in the heart as wine is poured? Who could have known that wind and rain were about to batter the flowers without mercy?

In Reply to Zhang Ziwang’s “Viewing the Flowers in Luoyang”

Nature’s creative power has never failed us, bringing the natural beauty of red and purple blossoms into view across the world. The city is bustling with carriages and horses, yet that does not mean its people truly know how to appreciate spring. Even if they encounter spring, they may not understand its spirit.

My disciple Zhang Min’s “Viewing the Flowers of Luoyang, Presented to the Master” says: “I have always truly loved flowers throughout my life. The city is bustling with carriages and horses, yet that does not mean its people truly know how to appreciate spring.”

Zhang Min’s “Viewing the Flowers of Luoyang, Presented to the Master” also says: “I have always been a lover of flowers. I have searched for beauty everywhere, yet never found anything truly lovely. I had thought that nowhere in the human world could there be flowers of such rare color; only today have I first seen the spring splendor of Luoyang.”

A Short Song on Falling Flowers

Peach and plum trees flourish, their branches, leaves, and blossoms spreading through the garden, only to be battered by a sudden gale. When the flowers have just fallen, it always brings sorrow; yet one should also remember the time before they bloomed. Red blossoms are vivid, but fade easily; green branches and shade, by contrast, are not so readily changed. The ninety days of spring have passed. Seated before the wine vessel, how can one bear to keep frowning in sorrow?

A Short Poem on Fragrant Grass

Among the flowers and beside the water, fragrant grass is green as a thick carpet. Since the Han and Qin dynasties, the rise and fall of worldly affairs has moved countless people to reflection. Fragrant grass spreads across the mountains and rivers; through all ages, how many have grieved at its sight?

Severe frost lays plants low, but after the rain they grow again. Wildfires burn the grass away, but when spring comes, it sprouts anew. Yet there is simply too much of this roadside grass, and farmers must labor to plow it out.

A Short Poem on Weeping Willows

Beside the stream, weeping willow branches sweep softly across the water, only to be tossed back and forth by the gale. At dusk, mist veils the scene in haze; in late spring, the days grow longer, a change one can do nothing about.

Whose graceful blue silk shawl is that, fluttering in the breeze? Where are those golden silk garments dancing? The willow catkins and blossoms seem like sleeves drifting in the air. The poet still fears that the sorrow of those parted has not run its course, so willow fluff continues to whirl across the sky.

A Short Poem on Spring Waters

The snow melts and the ice thaws; clear spring water fills the ditches. Kingfishers and mandarin ducks move freely through the water. The distant mountains seem unable to block the view, while the boats at a water inlet seem impossible to hold back.

Willows along the banks brush the water lightly, and young cattails near the shore send up slender shoots. Looking out, one sees misty waters stretching without end; the Three Wu, the ancient collective name for the Wu region downstream of the Yangtze, seem to send off a lone boat on purpose.

A Short Poem on the Clear Breeze

The pleasure brought by the clear breeze has not yet entirely passed. How can I say Heaven has already abandoned me? I often use fasting to bring my body and mind into balance, for I am studying the Book of Changes; yet I am often ashamed of my own laziness and carelessness, devoting myself only to composing poetry.

All the beautiful sights of the human world enter my eyes, and worldly cares no longer furrow my brow. I was born in peaceful times, and now, in this peaceful age, I am gradually growing old.

Sent to Li Sheny an, Academician of the Dragon Diagram, in Late Spring

Each year I dread the coming end of spring; whenever late spring arrives, my body can scarcely bear it. The line in the poem referring to “sorrow from wine” seems to have lost some of its text. The words that survive here still lament that spring is ending and that body and mind cannot endure it. Li Sheny an, Academician of the Dragon Diagram, is the person to whom the poet addressed this poem.

Year after year, as spring draws to a close, I always worry that its beauty is fading. Whenever spring is at its height, my body grows so frail that I can scarcely endure it. Now and then, after a small gathering over wine, my spirits sink; and the weather best suited to tending flowers is often overcast.

Time passes, and the affairs of former days change with it. Though the sights of the season are lovely, they cannot restore a heart growing old day by day. Only the porch before my house remains a fitting place to sit in silence. Facing the wind, I think of old friends who understood me.

Leisurely Verses in Early Summer

Deep among the green willows, golden orioles sing in lilting notes. Listening to their calls, one can still feel the joy of peaceful times. Is a long life truly a misfortune? Could the rare and beautiful things born of Heaven have no feeling?

After the peonies fade, purple cherries ripen; as the tree peonies bloom, mottled bamboo shoots emerge. Living among the woods, I still enjoy a life of ease and plenty. When have I ever felt myself beneath the ministers and nobles?

Written on Someone’s Behalf in Reply to Yao Fuzhou, Gentleman-in-Waiting and Investigating Official of Kaifeng Prefecture

The affairs of the world often go against our wishes. To think that speaking up and seeking advancement will necessarily bring results is to misunderstand how things work. Rather than turn every matter over and over in your mind, you might as well speak freely about it while chatting on West Street.

Even if you had extraordinary talent enough to shape the course of the age, what could you do? Your temples are already streaked white as silk. The new moon at the edge of the sky has always been slender; it will not change its shape simply because people below admire arched eyebrows.

Your letter says, “I hope you will take good care of yourself. I fear you cannot remain for long among the mountains and forests.”

In an age of peace and prosperity, what is there to worry about, even in old age? I delight in the scenery of my home and wander here at ease. The shade of several green willows gradually joins into one broad canopy. A secluded bird calls a few times, then falls silent.

Bamboo grows on either side of the old path, in a varied rise and fall. Spring waters fill the channels and flow out in both directions. Someone asks the master why he is so happy. He replies, “This joy is no less than being made a marquis.”

Heaven nurtures me, a lazy and carefree person, according to its own design. In Luoyang, I have been granted a serene home, clear as water and light as clouds. I hear no news of the world’s perils and upheavals; before me, I see only the long, unhurried passage of sun and moon in the world within the pot. “The world within the pot” is a common expression for a realm far from worldly concerns, where one lives freely and at ease.

I set out a leisurely game of chess and keep a visitor from the countryside company. Facing the tall bamboo, I drink a few cups of fine wine. Having seen through the ways of human relationships and the workings of the world, I feel there is nothing to trouble me. Before I know it, I have entered a state like Yan Hui’s “sitting in forgetfulness.” Yan Hui was a disciple of Confucius; “sitting in forgetfulness” describes a state of mind in which, while sitting quietly, one forgets the body and the things around one.

For years I have suffered from a “poet’s madness”: whenever poetic inspiration strikes, I must raise a cup of wine. My heart is set on delighting in the Dao, and I no longer hold myself back. I speak as I please, frankly and unreservedly, with little second-guessing.

My friends and guests have grown close through long companionship. The pleasure of this cloud-and-water life is deep and lasting. Only now do I understand the deeper meaning of Tao Yuanming’s drinking for pleasure: life before this window is as simple and free as it was in the age of Fuxi in ancient times.

A Long Chant While Watching a Game of Go

The courtyard is quiet, spring is in full bloom, and the doors stand half closed in the daylight. I watch guests play Go at ease among the bamboo. The players marshal their strategies in their minds as if summoning spirits; on the board, their formations seem to arrange mountains and rivers and claim territory.

As the game closes in, the stones clash like dragons and snakes, arrayed for battle. After a ko fight, they scatter like wild geese, their formation broken. A killing attack is fierce as Xiang Yu’s execution of captured Qin soldiers; a disastrous defeat is like Fu Jian’s fear of the Jin army.

The two players seated across from each other seem to cross spears and halberds. Before them, the situation shifts in an instant, now like ice, now like charcoal. It seems that both players’ survival hangs in the balance, yet victory or defeat often turns on a single move.

At a strategic crossroads, when interests are at stake, neither side will yield. Yet each must feign reluctance when facing the other. A wound to one’s inner circle is truly alarming; when an ally bound to you like lips and teeth suffers, there may still be a way to save them. They treat slandering others as sound policy, secretly put their schemes into action, and congratulate themselves on knowing how to seize the moment. Look at what happens on the roads of Chang’an today: could the same not happen elsewhere? The poem uses the game of Go to portray human struggles, lamenting that similar contests of intrigue and power are common in the real world.

Two Poems on Climbing Chongde Pavilion in Autumn

So many gifted and worthy people have seen their ambitions stifled and their aspirations thwarted. Climb high and look into the distance; there is no need to sigh over it. Mountains and rivers have witnessed wars through the ages, and now only traces remain. The eminent figures of the past century, once distinguished by their caps and swords, have all faded away.

It is in vain to make fame and achievement one’s responsibility. Who can know that wealth and rank are not things one can secure by human effort? The painter’s skill has rendered the scenes of the world with exquisite precision, yet can it capture the feelings I have as I gaze into the distance from the railing?

Collected Works of Yichuan Striking the Clappers

For a hundred years, people have called the realm peaceful, yet in the beginning they still feared that affairs might become unsettled. The capital retains traces of the Han and Tang dynasties at their height, while the palaces still display the imposing air of former imperial rule.

Beyond the mist, the mountain peaks are just visible; after the autumn frost, half the red leaves have already fallen. Though there is wine in the cup, it is hard to become drunk. As soon as I sink into intoxication, the west wind blows me awake.

Returning Late After Drinking on an Autumn Day

The bamboo groves and gardens by the water grow lovelier in autumn. How could I bring myself to set down my cup? The Double Ninth Festival has passed, and only now are the chrysanthemums beginning to bloom. My feelings are so deep that I refuse to let them grow old, as the years do.

Dark clouds hang motionless, and the willows droop. The evening breeze carries a faint chill, and dusk comes early. My leisurely mood has no bounds and cannot be brought to an end. On horseback, I slowly ride across the grass along the capital’s streets.

Sent to Zuzezhi, Gentleman of the Secretariat and Governor of Shaan

Do you still remember when we met, there in the lands east of the sea? We parted a thousand miles apart, and in the blink of an eye ten years have passed.

Our circumstances differ, as do our reputations, yet our hearts are in accord and we are close in age. I keep hoping that one day we will meet again for a long conversation. Then we will drink wine and compose poems, with no end to our delight.

Mourning Zhang Yuanbo, Director of Military Affairs

In recent years, one elder after another has passed away, and my heart is heavy with grief once more. Among those in the Luoyang poetry society who resigned from office to live in seclusion, you alone were so refined and clear, like an immortal.

We once spoke of which of us was older and which younger. Now we must contend over who will leave this world first. I pour wine upon the ground to honor you; surely you will know. In the west wind, I shed tears for you.

Mourning Zhang Shirou, Senior Officer

All your life you aspired to achieve great things. Who could have guessed that your talents would be no match for fate? The poems you left at the end of your life reveal your noble feelings. Now you lie in your coffin, and there will be no more chance to express the deep affection of friendship to the full.

Your insights into current affairs, held in your heart, can never be put to use; the world has also lost your judgment of its talented people. If your spirit is aware, you can rest easy: your descendants will surely restore the family’s honor.

Written in Reply to the Poem Sent by Pei Han, Assistant Prefect of Dengfeng

Zhiping 3 (1066 CE; Shao was 56)

The world praises the virtue of being content with a simple life, finding joy in a basket of rice and a gourd of water. What sort of person am I, to feel ashamed of poverty and solitude? Since I know that wealth and rank depend on fate, there is no need to ask Heaven about the rises and falls of an official career.

Quiet and reserved, I can let my nature return to simplicity. Yet I have had no chance to rise to prominence, nor do I wish to imitate the ways of the powerful men of our age. Those who frequent the gates of the mighty and lose themselves in worldly splendor would probably laugh at me, the old man by the stream who can only till a barren field.

Note: “A basket and a gourd” refers to a simple, impoverished life; “golden gates” refers to the court or the gates of the powerful.

Why must life be so exhausting? Even a slight step beyond the everyday world calls for long reflection. In action, one must strain every ounce of strength, like drawing a crossbow weighted with a thousand jun; in self-cultivation, one must temper oneself again and again, like gold refined through a hundred firings.

Fishing by the water, I mistakenly found myself holding the power of life and death; sitting at leisure over a game of chess, thoughts of war stirred in my heart. For now, I borrow a cup of fine wine to console myself and settle my spirit; sometimes I drink alone among the trees.

Why must life be so exhausting? Even a slight step beyond the everyday world calls for long reflection. In action, one must strain every ounce of strength, like drawing a crossbow weighted with a thousand jun; in self-cultivation, one must temper oneself again and again, like gold refined through a hundred firings.

Fishing by the water, I mistakenly found myself holding the power of life and death; sitting at leisure over a game of chess, thoughts of war stirred in my heart. For now, I borrow a cup of fine wine to console myself and settle my spirit; sometimes I drink alone among the trees.

In those days, I resolved to rise above everyone beneath Heaven. When I read the ancient books, I even laughed at Xie An, the eminent minister of the Eastern Jin who had retired before returning to office and achieving great things. Who could have known that I would now be content to grow old in idleness, without even a place where I might wander at leisure?

At chess, a worthy opponent must be met before it is worth making a move; if there is no one who understands the music, I have no wish to play. This is not simply because I lack talent and can only withdraw into silence. The sages of old, too, often lamented how hard it was to find the right moment to put their aspirations into practice.

Longing was hard to restrain, so I took this chance to visit you on West Street. Along the way, I crossed little bridges over ditches and followed narrow, winding paths around the vegetable plots.

Low branches blocked the way, and I had to duck beneath them as I passed. I held my bamboo staff higher and switched it from hand to hand. When friends meet and find themselves in accord, what could be more joyful?

You have arranged to visit the area around Mount Song, and I will write another new poem to accompany you. To leave behind the world’s troubles, I dare not lag behind you; yet as you explore cloud-wreathed waters and scenic places, I regret that I have already fallen a step behind.

Near Sanyang Palace, secluded clusters of rocks lie deep in shadow, while Wansui Peak rises high, shrouded in purple mist. Many beautiful places remain unexplored. I hope to accompany you, following the traces of the immortals as we climb and seek them out together.

From the summit of Mount Song, the Nine Provinces encircle the land like pieces on a chessboard. Viewed from above, the realm appears peaceful. If a worthy ruler governed all within the Four Seas, how could the Central Plain be torn by war and strife?

I am often troubled to see deceitful and overbearing men with my own eyes. I only wish I could be a commoner living under the sage rule of Yao and Shun. In these fifty-three years, so much has been neglected and lost. At last, I am glad to see spring plowing begin.

The Government Offices in Dengfeng County Town and Lesser Shaoshi Mountain

When Heaven and Earth had only just taken shape and gathered into being, this mountain already towered into the clouds. Peaks encircled it like banners and ceremonial guards in attendance; huge rocks stood in rows like swords and halberds.

At sunrise, the cliffs were the first to blush red. After rain, mist curled around them, making the mountain appear all the more green and blue. Who can say there are no immortals in these mountains? Perhaps they have been living in seclusion here for years.

A Letter from the Mountains to the Magistrate of Dengfeng County

When I first left the county town, I meant to spend just one night in the mountains. Once I arrived, though, I could not bear to leave. If there is no civil business for you to attend to at the county office, I hope you will bring your tea things and come up the mountain.

Sent on the Way Back to Luoyang to Zuzezhi, Academician of Zhengzhou

Your kindness is deep, engraved in my bones and marrow like that of loving parents; our bond is weighty as hills and mountains, the friendship of many years. On my way back, I passed through the old places I once visited at Songyang, on the southern slopes of Songshan. There, deep among the white clouds, it seemed I had found myself again, cloaked in vines and hidden away in the mountains.

In Reply to a Poem from Academician Zu

The place where my family has settled is among the cloud-wreathed mountains. When I cannot see those mountains, I can scarcely bring myself to smile. The joy of roaming the hills cannot be constrained by a schedule, and even in dreams my spirit never returns to the dusty world. Amid the mists and mountain haze, there is pleasure without end; official rank and ceremonial robes, however, never grant a moment’s peace. Friends from the Luoyang circle have invited me again and again. When will we finally manage to climb the mountain and meet, even for a little while?

A Poem on Green Ornamentation

Once the green ornament is finished, it can be called the work of a skilled hand; its form looks as if made by a true expert. Still, beware of others examining it with a cold, close eye: a wooden puppet has no curtain to hide behind, and its flaws will eventually show.

Three Poems on Myself

It is hard to find a footing in the world of fame and profit; one ought to turn back early and head for the mountains, streams, and rocks. Otherwise, even at fifty, this frail body will still be swept along by the storms of worldly affairs, without end.

The wind and moon filling my view are within an official’s responsibility; the clouded mountains spread across the land also fall within my duties. I alone dare to speak frankly without restraint, and there is no harm in discussing the lofty Way openly with others.

I often regret that my nature is dull and that I heard of the Great Way too late. I am also often ashamed that my abilities are insufficient to meet the demands of the times. A human life lasts roughly thirty-six thousand days in all; for twenty thousand of them, my body and mind have been at ease.

A Note Written on the Spur of the Moment

Opinions are many, and each argument has its own school. Where can one find a true Confucian, one worthy of being called a scholar-official? The teaching of moral order has its own line of orthodoxy, and there have always been people to uphold it. Can it be that in all the vast Central Plain there are no capable people?

Although the ages of sage kings, emperors, and hegemons were different, the principles carried by ritual, music, poetry, and the classics are renewed with each age. Looking at events in antiquity often helps us see the realities of the present. Today’s Confucian scholars wear official robes and serve at court. Surely they know who truly understands the art of governing all under Heaven. The Confucian tradition of moral and social norms has its own line of transmission; in the vast Central Plains, could there be no worthy people?

Although the ages of sage kings, emperors, and hegemons were different, the principles carried by ritual, music, poetry, and the classics are renewed with each age. Looking at events in antiquity often helps us understand the present, yet we do not know who today truly understands the art of governing all under Heaven.

Written on behalf of someone, to be sent to Chen Chengbo, magistrate of Shangluo

You have gone to take up your post in Shangluo, with six months remaining before your term ends. The area around Mount Shang is remote, and there are few skilled physicians. After the grief of losing your wife, sorrow that lingers over time can easily impede the flow of Qi (vital energy). The hot, damp season has arrived as well, making illness more likely.

Even the wise cannot avoid hardship; the worthy know how to face both sorrow and honor. These words may seem plain, but their meaning is not shallow. I hope they may help one or two outstanding and gifted people gain some understanding.

In the second autumn month of the Dingwei year of Zhiping (1067 CE), I traveled along the Yi and Luo rivers. At dusk on the sixth, I left Luoyang through its western gate and spent the night at the Fengqin Monastery. There I listened to Daoist Zhang play the qin. “Daoist” is a term for someone who cultivates the Dao.

At dusk, I drove out through Shangyang and, after going only a short way, stayed in a place surrounded by water and clouds. I listened to several more melodies like immortal music, and only then believed that within the pot there is another world, where the sun and moon pass at leisure. “The sun and moon within the pot” is a common Daoist expression for a realm beyond the mundane world, a hidden paradise of its own.

Seventh day: Following the Luo River and lodging at Yanchiu Manor

By the eighth month, the crops at Yanchiu had ripened. For farming families, a good harvest means a life of plenty. With a basket of chicken and millet and a ladle of wine, why envy the princes and nobles who spend ten thousand coins on a single meal?

Eighth day: Crossing the Luo River, climbing South Mountain to view Penyu Spring, and touring with the three officials Zhang, Zhao, and Yin of Shou’an County

Crossing the Luo River and heading south, we admired Penyu Spring and gazed at a thousand mountain peaks joined in an unbroken range. Between the peaks, a stream flowed on like a ribbon of white snow, plunging into a cold pool. No one knows how many years it has been flowing.

Ninth day: Climbing Mount Jinping in Shou’an County and lodging in the county town below

Mists and clouds gathered into a single expanse, and the mountain rose exceptionally high. Here, a feeling of vastness and solitude arose naturally within me. An immortal of unknown name lived on the mountain. The doorway to the cave, set against the white clouds, stood open at ease.

We rode side by side westward to visit Die Shi Creek. Layer upon layer, sheer cliffs surround and enclose it, rising so high they seem to meet the clouds. The plunging spring seems intent on keeping travelers here. How could one fail to fulfill the wish of someday making a home in this place?

(Die Shi Creek lies five or six li south of the county seat.)

On the tenth day, we went west past Yongji Bridge, a bridge dating to the Tang dynasty.

On the tenth day, we went west across Yongji Bridge. A fine rain kept falling, soaking our clothes. The mountain spirit seemed to understand the traveler’s feelings with tender concern. Fearing that we had not yet taken in all the mountain’s green beauty, it sent another shower to hold us back.

Two Poems on Passing Yiyang City

The Six States were weak, yet together they served Qin, exhausting themselves in hurried obedience, while still failing to draw close to one another. Why did Qin have to kill half the people under Heaven? Was there not a single person left east of the passes?

Yiyang City was once called a secondary capital—a major city apart from the capital. The mountain spirit seemed to understand the traveler’s feelings with tender concern. Fearing that we had not yet taken in all the mountain’s green beauty, it sent another shower to hold us back.

Two Poems on Passing Yiyang City

The Six States were weak, yet together they served Qin, exhausting themselves in hurried obedience, while still failing to draw close to one another. Why did Qin have to kill half the people under Heaven? Was there not a single person left east of the passes?

Yiyang was once called a secondary capital. Why was Han so weak in particular? Zhang Liang, whose courtesy name was Zifang, could not fulfill his wish to avenge himself. So he tried to assassinate the First Emperor of Qin at Bolang Sands, but struck the decoy carriage instead.

On the eleventh day, we were caught in the rain at Fuchang County.

Clouds and mist drift slowly past the peaks; the sound of springs comes from the bamboo grove, faint and secluded. At this moment, my heart is full of unspoken feeling, which only the kingfisher can understand.

A poem matching the rhymes of one sent by the assistant county magistrate of Shou’an.

I do not wish to toil in vain amid the dust of the world, yet I lack the talents to win the favor of the worthy men of our age. I once hoped to achieve great things, but accomplished nothing. Now I wish to live among the green mountains, and it seems I have a bond with this place.

Beneath the deep shade of emerald bamboo, I unroll my green books; where white clouds gather, I bow to the plunging spring. Jinscreen Mountain faces South Creek. May our promise to explore it together one day be passed down from generation to generation.

On the twelfth day, I toured Dragon Pool with Wang Zanshan, the magistrate of Fuchang County. Dragon Pool lies in the southern mountains, fifteen li from the county seat.

The deep pool is cold and clear, its depths dark beneath the cliffs. Several peaks rise into the clouds, their slopes a vivid green. The travelers hold their breath and dare not speak, fearing that thunder might suddenly sound beside the pool.

We sit quietly by the water. Though evening is falling, we linger and cannot bring ourselves to leave. After mounting our horses, we look back and see another pool…

The deep pool is cold and clear, its depths dark beneath the cliffs. Several peaks rise into the clouds, their slopes a vivid green. The travelers hold their breath and dare not speak, fearing that thunder might suddenly sound beside the pool.

As dusk gradually fell, I remained seated by the water, reluctant to leave. I mounted my horse and looked back once more; layers of cloud and mist had already closed off the view.

On the thirteenth day, visiting the Upper Temple north of the county seat and Huangjian to the west

If you can settle your heart amid the dust of the world, you can turn an ordinary place into a truly pure retreat. If you have not yet understood the monks’ state of mind, even a temple will seem no more than part of the secular world. If we do not seek immortal grottoes and sanctuaries here, where else can we look for a place of secluded cultivation?

It is lamentable that the Five Hegemons—the feudal lords who successively dominated during the Spring and Autumn period—vied for the power left behind as the Zhou royal house declined. And how laughable that, when the realm was divided into three, each side fought over no more than the remnants of the Han dynasty. How much better to be as I am: a person of no talent or use, sitting idly aside while clouds and waters gather around my sleeves.

On the fourteenth day, written at the East Pavilion of the Fuchang county office

Autumn has come to the region around the Luo River, and the scenery is especially beautiful. A brief shower has passed, leaving the slanting paths damp and fresh. The county office lies hidden in a secluded place ringed by water and bamboo; homes are nestled in mountain valleys veiled by mist.

After the frost, red leaves fleck the layered woods. In the clear sky, a few colored clouds unfurl from the horizon. Streams run deep in some places and shallow in others, clear and bright; the peaks rise and fall, green and rugged.

Birds choose trees for their nests, flying far and freely. Clouds drift away without intention, seeming to travel ever farther. World-renowned achievements often meet with setbacks, while exceptional talent, too, can be a cause for regret.

Life is brief, yet time is still worth cherishing. Once past fifty, one should not demand too much of one’s strength. Let us build a house beside these mountain rocks and enjoy a happiness that is truly our own—a happiness without end.

On the fifteenth day, reflections on leaving Fuchang

The Lianchang Palace lies in ruins, but the Chang River still flows. The past has faded and time has changed; many of the stories told about it are empty words. Below the palace stands a desolate shrine whose origins can no longer be traced. The old locust tree is bare and withered, while the bamboo rises tall.

That evening, staying below Mount Jinping

The moon usually seems beautiful to me, but never as specially round as it is tonight. I can almost imagine Su’e, the immortal maiden of the moon palace, making up for the long years of regret by arranging for us to meet before Mount Jinping.

On the sixteenth day, replying in the same rhyme to a poem sent by the magistrate of Fuchang

It is not easy for people who share a sense of what is right to find joy in one another. As the ancients said, the hardest thing is to understand another person. There is no need for one’s writing to court the powerful at court or in the marketplace; living among clouds and waters, one need not let honor or disgrace stir the heart.

Our conversation was thorough and thoughtful, every word fitting its meaning. The words came naturally and frankly, without a trace of affectation. Perhaps one day, when the friends who gather at the Luoshe literary meetings in Luoyang meet again, they will paint a picture of this friendship.

Like-mindedness in the Dao and mutual admiration do not make true intimacy easy. The ancients said that one of the hardest things is to understand another person. I do not write to curry favor with the powerful at court or in the marketplace; the gains and losses of honor or disgrace have nothing to do with my free life, as unbound as clouds and flowing water.

So long as speech is detailed and penetrating, it speaks only of the principles of things. When words bear no trace of deliberate artifice, they reveal what is natural and genuine. In time, among the friends who often gather at Luoyang’s poetry society, another neighbor will be added to their collections of poems, prose, and paintings.

On the seventeenth day, beneath Mount Jinping, I thank Zhang and Sun of the city for the tea they gave me

The mountain colors are rich as deep blue dye, and the rippling water seems dyed as well. My mind and spirit wander with the mountains and streams, and have always been hard to restrain. I take the tea given to me by my two friends; whenever I reach the misty depths of the mountains, I stop to boil it and savor a cup.

Looking into the distance at dusk from Shou’an County

There is no need to lament life’s rises and falls, its honors and humiliations. Just listen to the stream murmur all day long. A lone wild goose flies far through the evening haze, while a pair of egrets cross the smoke-veiled fields on their way back.

Fine trees grow in a garden beneath green cliffs, while emerald peaks encircle the land before the county town. I hear that those who take fame and profit lightly sometimes pause in their busy lives and come here to pass the time.

On the eighteenth day, crossing Qianyang Slope southward to visit my parents’ graves in Yichuan

A humble grave, three feet high, rests against a mountain a hundred feet tall. My loving birth parents lie here in eternal rest. Even death cannot repay this bond of kinship. I linger until dusk, reluctant to leave, and only then make my way back.

Missing the Cheng family’s father, sons, and brothers, I write them a poem

Each year, as the Mid-Autumn season approaches, I delight in wandering among beautiful mountains and waters. Now you urge me to return early so we can gather; my journey to Yichuan cannot be prolonged.

The weather seems just as it was in years past, and the mountains and rivers look as they always did. I came alone and leave alone. Who could understand how I feel?

On the nineteenth day, returning to Luoyang and visiting Longmen on the way

Whenever I travel between Yichuan and Luoyang and pass Mount Long, the promised date of my return hurries me on, so I cannot stay long. The weather seems just as it was in years past, and the mountains and rivers look as they always did. I came alone and leave alone. Who could understand how I feel?

Inscribed at Longmen

Whenever I pass Mount Long, my mind grows at ease. Do not say that one’s surroundings cannot change one’s state of mind. How could anyone remain at ease while entangled in the pursuit of fame and profit?

There is no need for the sights before us to put on a deliberate show of strangeness. Do people in this world not always chase after what is new? Only the clear breeze and bright moon on the steps before the gate remain as they have always been; this lucid scene still belongs to those who live at leisure.

The mountains formed as rock solidified over countless years, though no one knows how long it took. Clouds and mist wind through the sheer cliffs and gray stone walls, as if locking sorrow inside. Yu the Great, king of Xia, used his skill in flood control to divert the waters, allowing the Yi River to cut through the mountains.

The sound of the water at Bajiang Shoal has echoed in my ears for a long time. From the tower, the scenery on both banks of the Yi River lies before my eyes. Travelers, do not merely lean on the railing to admire the view and sigh with feeling. How many heroes, too, have gradually grown old with the passing years?

Who swung a long sword and cut down the great river serpent? After the serpent was slain, the sword was put away. Its twisting claws and tail became Mount Hua; its fearsome horns and teeth solidified into Mount Song.

Its bones were wounded in two places, forming steep gray cliffs. Its blood flowed eastward and became mighty waves. If even this monster could not keep its head and tail intact, then when people slander you, do not let their words spread unchecked.

Viewing the Yi River from the Stone Tower at Longmen

I have come here many times, walking along a path among the mist and rosy clouds, taking in the scenery before me to my heart’s content. The hundred-foot tower seems joined to a mountain path passable only to birds, while the misty waters around the Yi River belong to the monks.

Only with a tranquil mind can one truly feel joy. Only then does one understand that high office and status are nothing to boast of. In days free from worldly distractions, a visit to scenery like this also teaches one that blessings are boundless.

On the Twentieth, I Went into the City and Met Old Friends

At this time each year, I come along the narrow path through the misty hills, yet no one ever thinks I am too attached to this place. When I return and see friends and family, I tell them of these quiet, beautiful scenes. To avoid trouble, for now I speak cautiously and sparingly, as though sealing my words away.

On the Evening of the Twenty-Second, I Walked along Tianjin; a Poem Followed the Next Day

Last night I strolled beside the stream, walked as far as Tianjin Bridge, and stopped there for a long while. On the Luo River, all I could hear was the sound of oars cutting through the water; the west wind simply urged travelers onward.

The mountains and rivers looked dim in the cold rain. Towers stood at varying heights, vanishing into the evening mist. Who could truly take in this scene? When frost is about to fall, the wild geese will come to rest here.

On the Twenty-Fifth, I Matched the Rhyme of Assistant Manager Wu Chuanzheng of the Left Treasury, in Reply to His Gift

Around Shangyang Palace, the view before me is lovely, just right for settling the mind and reading. Beyond ordinary things, there is also a broad, level road. The fine season draws me back to a fragrant-grass ferry, while a light breeze sweeps across Lake Dongting.

If one does not often visit the Red River in search, where will the “yellow sprouts” that bring delight day after day come from? The Red River and yellow sprouts are common cultivation images in Daoist texts. Do not think that there is nothing left to do once you reach Tianjin—the area around a ferry on the Luo River is meant here. Even in quiet retirement, one must still work at self-cultivation.

A friend’s poem said, “From now on, the scenery on the south bank of Tianjin cannot all belong to Shao Yaofu,” the Northern Song philosopher Shao Yong. So I wrote these two lines in reply.

On the twenty-ninth, replying in the same rhyme to a poem presented by Lu Gangshu, Registrar of Luoyang

A light rain has just stopped, and by chance I have driven my carriage beneath Phoenix Tower. I know I can approach and seek the guidance of a man like Xie Shen, a figure of jade famed for his talent and learning in the Jin dynasty; and fortunately, the clear blue sky symbolized by Le Guang, a celebrated Jin figure, has not yet grown distant.

We have been apart through the length of summer and autumn. What have you heard lately? When we meet beneath the lamplight, what books will we read? I regret that I did not bring bolts of silk, a traditional gift, to pay my respects to a worthy man such as Master Cheng, whether Cheng Hao or Cheng Yi. I can only return alone, weighed down by worry, to my humble home.

This passage mainly records textual differences among various editions of the Collected Works of Yichuan, Striking the Earth (Yichuan Jirang Ji). “The edition printed by Bi Heng” refers to the version he had printed, while “the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries edition” refers to the version included in that collection. Each entry explains which lines of poetry appear in the respective editions.

Volume Six contains a poem written on someone else’s behalf, as a letter to Zhou Shiyan, magistrate of Pu’an County in Jianzhou and an official responsible for agricultural administration. The poem begins: “An official need not keep lamenting his lot; if you wish to climb high, you must first start from below.” The following words, “A gentleman is constrained…,” are the surviving beginning of a poetic line, meaning that a gentleman may be temporarily held back…

Written on Behalf of Someone, Sending a Message to Zhou Shiyan, Magistrate of Pu’an in Jianzhou and Official of the Agricultural Fields

There is no need to sigh and worry about holding office. How can anyone climb to a height without first starting from below? A noble person understands when to advance or withdraw, when to bend or extend; only then do they accord with the Way. For a scholar, whether to enter public life or retreat from it depends above all on choosing the right time.

Now that Magistrate Tao Yuanming of Pengze has retired to seclusion, where will he go to live? There is still time to follow the example of Shu Guang and Shu Shou and resign through the eastern gate. What I regret is that the scenery around the Yi River and Mount Song is so splendid, yet no worthy person has come to settle there. If there is a fine place, we should seek out another worthy person to live there.

From the two Shu regions to the three Wu regions is a journey of more than ten thousand li. Only last year I gazed north from afar; this year I have traveled west again.

The Jian Pavilion rises so high it seems to reach the edge of the sky; the Qin plain blocks the road to the capital. When I face the wind, I think of you. I wonder whether you can raise a cup and drink with me.

Another Quatrain

This is just the time when old friends come and go to meet one another, all the more so now that late autumn has come and the plants are withering. I hold a sprig of chrysanthemum and set out a jug of wine. My old friend is heading west; another year will pass before we meet again.

In Reply to Zhao Chongde, Assistant Secretary, on His Kind Gift

People say that holding high office is often dangerous; I, for my part, cherish a life far from the bustle of the marketplace and the court. My plain appearance is ill suited to rushing about at court; my leisurely, unburdened self is better suited to visiting Yang Liao.

I have written more than a thousand poems, yet none has any rules or standards. My heart is full of mountains, rivers, clouds, and mists; at hand I have only a gourd of wine. I have long regretted that your carriage will soon turn eastward again. After that, I fear it will be hard to invite you to enjoy the moon and the breeze together.

In Reply to Gentleman Wang Buyi on His Kind Gift

I have lived in Luoyang for twenty years, watching the people and affairs before me shift and change in endless variety. My appearance is as ordinary as grass and trees; how could it compare with the plants of the open wilderness? Within, my heart is as empty as a bell or a bronze vessel.

I have been deeply steeped in a generous and humane way of life, its influence reaching to the marrow. And I am amazed by your poetic talent, refined as fine jade. Zhuang Zhou need not be troubled by the loss that comes when reputation and substance do not match. I have no talent to begin with, and cannot, like the monkey trainer in Zhuangzi’s fable, win everyone’s approval.

In Reply to Professor Wei on His Kind Gift

In this bright and peaceful age, literature shines high like the sun and moon. I have little talent; I am only grateful to enjoy the blessings of a bountiful year. I have roamed among mountains, visiting Mount Taishi and Mount Shaoshi; and I have explored the waters, traveling along the Yi and Luo rivers.

In ancient times, Meng Ke struggled to find anyone who truly understood him. Today there is no one like Yan Hui in the world, so a reputation for virtue comes more easily. Whenever I read, I often reach subtle passages such as “Heaven’s Root,” and worry that the gentlemen may ask me about the most exalted and profound principles.

“Neither existent nor nonexistent: that is the ancestral home. In the end, we are separated from it by no more than a hair’s breadth. Everyone can reach it, though I have not yet arrived. Nothing in the world stands in anyone’s way—so who is hindering whom?”

Once you lose sight of this principle, even organs as close as the liver and spleen become as far apart as the states of Chu and Yue. Once you grasp it, even coarse greens and wild herbs seem as sumptuous as rich fare. For a thousand years, this principle has been hard to explain in a single sentence. To see its subtle workings, one must look to Lüliang, a place famed for its swift, dangerous waters.

Presented in Secret Instruction by Sun Chuanshi in Response to a Gift

“My home lies south of Tianjin Bridge. You often honor me by making the journey here in your carriage. When I first withdrew from public life, I began to let go of restraint; after a long spell of idleness, I grew lax and empty.”

“Better to retreat to the clouds and mountains with books on my back than to leave unfinished achievements for the histories to record with regret. A heart of utter sincerity is hardest to describe; I can only hope to remain like an empty boat—free of attachment to self and at peace with all things.” An “empty boat” means a boat without a passenger, and is often used as a metaphor for a mind without preconceptions, that moves with the current.

Written to the Rhyme of “The Snow Gathering for Longevity” by Chen Chengbo, a Court Writer

“Overnight, the flowers of the jade garden seem newly in bloom; the twelve terraces of the Jade Tower turn to drifting snow. In the city, the sight of snow lends greater savor to the wine; at the gathering, flakes swirl like willow catkins, and spring seems to flourish.”

“Those assembled at Liang Garden are all men of letters. Who would think of the immortal on Mount Gushe? The hope of a good harvest extends beyond a thousand full granaries; even with a foot of snow, may it fall often—let none tire of it.”

Written to the Rhyme of Chen Chengbo, a Court Writer, on the Gathering in the Garden of the Historiography Office

“Bamboo encircles tall pines, and the pines surround the pavilion. Coming here, one feels clear and refreshed to the very bone. Snow clings to the tips of the plum branches, where the buds open ever so slightly; beneath the ice, the watercourses rumble and roar.”

“As the final days of the year pass, one cannot help but feel the weight of time. Half tipsy, my heart is all the more stirred. Who would pity the chancellor, whose name alone remains? As for the Dao I uphold, how can it ever be put into practice?”

Written to Zhang Xian of Kuixia in Response to His Reminiscence at Baidi City

“I resent Cao Cao’s hold on Xuchang. Without a base in Liangzhou and Yizhou, one should not contend for the throne. When the realm was divided in three, the times were as violent as wind and thunder. How could cutting off the western route ever succeed?”

“I resent Cao Cao’s hold on Xuchang. Without a base in Liangzhou and Yizhou, one should not contend for the throne. When the realm was divided in three, the times were as violent as wind and thunder. Holding the southwest brought formidable strength.”

“Travelers passing by point casually to the old sites; the praise and blame in historians’ writings may be no more than empty words. If later generations do not understand why dynasties rise and fall, let them look at the old battlefield in the middle of the river.”

As a scholar, I am fortunate to live in a peaceful and prosperous age; living at home, I happen to be in the capital. Empty fame and profit are not what I seek. Where are there not clear streams and green hills?

When seeking out beautiful scenery, of course one should choose a lovely place; when inviting companions, one should choose people who share one’s interests. Enjoying leisure is the way of life of the unoccupied; it is quite different from stealing a moment of rest amid a busy life.

This six-foot body before me can live in peace and happiness. How could I bear to let the fine moments of the four seasons pass by unused? In the mild, cool months of February and August, invite three or five friends who value what is right. Prepare food and wine according to your means; simple fare will do. Open your hearts to conversation and laughter, and let your nature show itself freely. I urge you to make a habit of such peaceful gatherings. Even in old age, there is no need to tire of or turn down their company.

Do not let sorrow deplete your true Qi. Even if heroes die in resentment, the world will keep turning for a long time yet. Though many fine horses gallop along the road, phoenixes also soar freely at the edge of the sky.

Three thousand guests once honed their talents; a hundred and twenty mountain passes were guarded by mighty troops. In the end, it all passed like a spring dream. What else, then, is there to grieve over?

Waking beneath the southern window, I gaze at spring mountains veiled in mist and cloud. A thousand miles of scenery lie before my eyes, yet in a hundred years of life I have not seen a single truly carefree person.

Thoughts drift like fallen willow catkins, rising and falling with the wind, high or low. My mind is like a silken thread, wandering freely to and fro. I fear the quiet birds may understand what I feel and deliberately fly to the branches, singing their winding songs.

Who handed the power of creation over to the east wind? Once it is in the east wind’s hands, the changes of all things have no end. Even in the last days of winter, one should make plans in advance; yet the new year has only just begun, and already one must hurry after achievement.

The willow tips sway softly in the warmth; the plum blossoms secretly welcome spring, their buds showing a hint of red. How can I recover the feelings I once had, wearing a light robe among the young and wandering carefree?

Song of Peach and Plum Blossoms

Peach and plum blossoms open across the branches in the wind. When the wind shifts, it scatters them, and they fall in disarray. The joys and sorrows of life, its ease and its hardships, come one after another and linger in the heart. Grief and gladness alike show upon the brow.

When the Tai hexagram, symbolizing smooth passage and success, reaches its height, it turns into the Gu hexagram, symbolizing decay that calls for correction. When the Pi hexagram, symbolizing obstruction and stagnation, reaches its limit, it can instead become the Sui hexagram, symbolizing accord and free passage. People today should not envy the ancients so readily; their lives simply have not yet lasted long enough to pass through as much.

A Song of Heartbreak

I do not know what iron this needle was made from. Once forged, it serves only to pierce the human heart with pain. I had thought the heart was no more than a cun across, yet this needle sinks a full ten cun deep.

Lament for My Second Younger Brother, Who Passed Away Without Illness

The bond between brothers is deep and impossible to forget. Even cutting out my heart could not match this grief. In the past, whenever I faced danger and hardship, you brothers supported one another. Now I alone remain to bear everything.

The di di blossoms, a sign of brothers living in harmony, no longer bloom in pairs. The wild geese fly off, calling to one another, and break the orderly ranks they once kept. From now on, on nights of bright moon and clear breeze, I can only stand alone before the eastern hedge, bleak with sorrow and brokenhearted.

After my second younger brother was buried beneath the eastern hedge, I read the poem he had written for the Double Ninth Festival: “My clothes are as white as the moon this month; the chrysanthemums are still as golden as in years past. I would ask what lies beside the eastern hedge, but what was there has grown distant and can no longer be found.” Reading it now, it seems as though he had foretold what was to come.

Now that grief has overwhelmed me, where can I go to seek the eastern hedge? From this day on, all the memories of that place have fallen silent. The places where we once walked side by side belong to the past. Never has it been so hard to grieve alone, looking back with a heart full of sorrow.

My tears have run dry, but my grief has no end. Before I have even reached the Yellow Springs, the regret in my heart is already deep. I do not know when this sorrow will ease, or when the memory of thirty-two years of brotherly love and harmony will cease to wound me.

Another Poem

The elder brother is named “Yong,” and the younger brother “Mu.” How could the affection and harmony between brothers ever be enough? When the brothers went out or returned home, one of them would always stay behind to serve their parents and raise the children, keeping everything in the household as their parents wished.

Our kind father lived to the age of seventy-nine. The four young children were often together, running about and chasing one another. In those days, the brothers wore bright clothes to amuse him; laughter and cheerful talk filled the hall, and happiness seemed close enough to touch.

Father died suddenly the year before last, and this year my younger brother died young. Now I alone remain to care for our mother and look after the four children. Each day, facing the spirit tablet, we look at one another and weep.

I do not know how many thousands of feet long a person’s intestines are, nor how many thousands of measures of tears a person can shed.

I do not know how many thousands of feet my sorrowing heart measures, or how many thousands of bushels my tears would fill. Even if my heart were severed inch by inch and every tear had fallen, it would do no good. How could I ever repay the kindness I received in the past?

The bond between brothers is deep, its joy lasting like the harmonious music of the xun and chi, two instruments often used to symbolize brotherly accord. When will I be able to forget this affection? Perhaps only when the grass on our graves has grown wild and desolate.

Hearing the Cuckoo and Thinking of My Deceased Younger Brother

I often think of the beginning of last summer, when you and I listened together to the cuckoo’s cry. This year the cuckoo has come again, once more at the beginning of summer.

The bird seems to understand human grief. Before one mournful cry has ended, another follows. My sorrowing heart breaks with each call, and my spirit flies away with the cuckoo, I know not where.

Written at My Deceased Younger Brother’s Funeral Place

You came into the world after me, yet you left it before me. When it was time to depart, we could not, after all, yield to one another.

Walking at Dusk in the South of South Garden and Thinking of My Deceased Younger Brother

The grass south of South Garden is soft as a rug. At dusk I walk in the breeze; the air is fresh and clear of dust. It is a pity I cannot laugh with you. I cannot help wondering whether a cloud is drifting across the sky.

Coming into the world as a human being is like a cloud drifting to and fro, without knowing why.

Self-Pity

The heavens have been the same from ancient times to the present, impartially covering all things. The bond between brothers was deep, but now it has suddenly come to nothing. Over these five or seven years, one misfortune after another has befallen my family; now, nearing sixty, I have also developed a wind ailment of the head, a kind of headache.

By ordinary custom, people cannot help following the ways of the world. And by my own reckoning, I can hardly rely solely on servants to care for me. Where can I find the raft left by an immortal, said to lead to the River of Heaven, so that I might freely enjoy myself amid the clouds and waters of the Yi River?

Written for Myself in the Year Wushen

Though old, I still wish to sing while beating a pottery basin, as the ancients did, hoping I have not lost my natural, joyful disposition. The “Darkening of the Light” hexagram in the Book of Changes says to conceal one’s brilliance in darkness and pause for a time. But what, in the end, can one do about the unexpected calamity described by the “Innocence” hexagram?

Time flies overhead like an arrow, while the affairs of the human world stream past before my eyes like tangled hemp. If I do not make plans for myself now, the losses I suffer later will only be greater.

Written on Another’s Behalf and Sent to Zhao Chongdao, Grand Academician of the Northern Sea Staff

Second year of Xining (1069 CE; Shao was fifty-nine)

Since you left, I have seldom sung or recited poetry. Today, for once, let me raise my voice in song against the wind. Parting is easy, but meeting again is hard, and my heart is full of feeling. What emotions arise when one climbs high and gazes into the distance?

A hundred years of life pass all too quickly; once time is gone, it never returns. Across a thousand miles, there is no end to the things one longs for. Today the cups and wine vessels are all in readiness, like one of Kong Rong’s famous banquets. And you are so broad-minded—how many people like you are there? For now, let me sing aloud against the wind. Parting is easy, but meeting again is hard, and my heart is full of feeling. What emotions arise when one climbs high and gazes into the distance?

A hundred years of life pass all too quickly; once time is gone, it never returns. Across a thousand miles, there is no end to the things one longs for. The banquet is in full swing today, just like one of Kong Rong’s gatherings. And you are so magnanimous—how many people like you are there?

A Reply Using the Rhymes of the Poem Presented by Wang Buyi, Shaoqing

I will not let sorrow spoil the beauty of this moment. Time races past before my eyes like a wheel in flight. To be content with ordinary things and keep within my means is to know my proper place. If I keep waiting for everything to be perfect before seeking peace, I fear there will be no end to it.

After a meal, I sometimes stroll through the garden of sweet flag; when I wake from sleep with nothing to do, I go to visit a monk. The scenery and moonlight around Tianjin Bridge surpass those elsewhere. I often think of brewing tea and admiring the view there with you.

The Humane Person’s Song

A truly humane person is hard to find. We should keep our hearts upright and even. Be cautious in your daily conduct; do not assume that because no harm is apparent now, you need take no precautions. The rush to get ahead by a shortcut often conceals danger; a little restraint in speech leaves more to reflect on.

Food that tastes too pleasing can harm the body when eaten in excess; an indulgence taken too far is sure to bring trouble. Rather than seek a remedy after falling ill, it is better to take precautions before illness comes.

The Person’s Song

A truly humane person is hard to find. We should keep our hearts upright and even. Be cautious in your daily conduct; do not assume that because no harm is apparent now, you need take no precautions. The rush to get ahead by a shortcut often conceals danger; a little restraint in speech leaves more to reflect on.

Food that tastes too pleasing can harm the body when eaten in excess; an indulgence taken too far is sure to bring trouble. Rather than seek a remedy after falling ill, it is better to take precautions before illness comes.

Two Poems Urging Guests to Drink as the First Plum Blossoms Open in the East Pavilion

Because I love the xiaomei plum, it moves me more than the early-blooming plum. A few branches have opened first, and I linger beside them. If all the plums in Lingnan bloom before the twelfth lunar month, how could Luoyang have plum blossoms that open only after the first lunar month?

The fragrance of blossoms drifts from the valley on the warm breeze. Their vivid blooms are reflected in the wine, which is brewing to a rich aroma. If my guests can understand the spirit who governs spring, let them not miss this chance to gather while spring is here.

Gentle spring colors fill Luoyang. Do not decline this outing; let it bring some comfort to our lives. I think fondly of the merry faces of good friends gathered together, and I treasure all the more the bright sight of plum blossoms before my eyes.

Besides, this rustic old man of mine enjoys a lively gathering, and spring wine is especially dear to me. If we do not drink our fill now, when will we have another chance to savor this peaceful age to the full?

The fresh breeze clears the mind and helps prolong life. At the thought of a worthy friend coming to visit, joy fills the heart: brows lift and a smile spreads across the face. The bright sight of plum blossoms reflected in the eyes becomes all the more precious.

Besides, this old man in the mountains is rather fond of refinement, and the wine before me is especially inviting. If I do not drink my fill now, when will I savor these peaceful times to the fullest?

A Long Chant to the Fresh Breeze

Between Heaven and Earth flows a calm, gentle breath, cool and refreshing beyond compare. It changes with the seasons, dispels illness, and brings an abundant harvest to the year.

The fresh breeze rises where green duckweed first appears on the water, then brushes past verdant trees. Just as the moon shines bright, it blows into the hometown of an old friend.

Dense leaves sway like layer upon layer of curtains; flourishing flowers seem to dance in splendid dress. Two or three lilting flute notes sound in the distance, while countless willow strands hang low nearby.

The fresh breeze carries the delicate strains of stringed instruments and the subtle fragrance of orchids. Pavilions stand near distant waters, and slender bamboo grows beside the railings.

In high summer, it drives away the stifling heat. When the rain has passed and the sky clears, it brings the cool of evening. It whispers over green lotus and water-chestnut leaves, then slowly seeps through a light garment.

The wind sends sleeves billowing like rolling waves, and the wine in the cup ripples with shimmering light. Idle sorrows cannot linger, while hidden thoughts easily drift far away on the breeze.

One feels light and exhilarated, as if racing on a heavenly steed; the spirit grows clear, as if refreshed by sweet sugarcane juice. Before the eyes lies the immortal realm of Langyuan, while the banquet mat seems to float upon the waters of the Xiao and Xiang.

No money can buy such a breeze; how could it be measured by the bushel? To enjoy it, one needs only one’s own virtue—why would a storeroom be needed to keep it? There is no need to fear anyone seizing it by force, nor to worry about thieves carrying it off. Take delight in the fresh breeze, and the heart will naturally be free of sorrow.

A Long Chant to the Drooping Willows

Willows have long branches and short ones; yet these willows, with their long, drooping boughs, are especially suited to quiet scenes.

In deep spring, the courtyard lies secluded; at dusk, pavilions are bathed in evening shadow. Mist hangs as though it will never disperse, and the sun lingers, making time itself seem slow.

A light rain has just stopped when a cool wind suddenly rises. Willows grow on both sides of Zhangtai Street and stand to the east and west of the ornamental pillars.

Willow tips peer over the wall, and branches brush the heads of passersby. They resemble light green sashes, or ethereal robes woven of golden threads.

Willow branches sway in the wind, while on sunny days their catkins drift through the air. In the warm breeze, their soft strands dance and scatter. Willow threads tug at every inch of the heart’s sorrow; willow catkins float into a thousand homes.

The willow branches are graceful and supple, like the refined beauty captured by Wang Gong’s brush. Swaying in the breeze, they seem to dance with the lightness of Zhao Feiyan. Their loveliness recalls the young Zhang Xu, while their slender delicacy brings to mind the slight figure of Shen Yue.

The willows glow with fresh color, their green branches trailing to the ground and fine leaves encircling the pond. They make the flowers seem more vivid and the grass grow more lush. Their dense shade covers the mountain lodge; where the branches thin, a tavern’s banner comes into view. Someone breaks off a willow branch as a parting gift, and the person seeing them off cannot hold back tears. The horse stops, as though it too were whinnying at the farewell.

From among the willow shadows comes the sound of carts and horses as those departing gradually travel out of sight. Beneath the thick shade, wheels rumble again as those returning pass by. Evening haze lends the scene a desolate air; slanting sunlight falls faintly across the branches. Lightly plucking a willow twig brings regret, and thoughts of parting deepen the sorrow. The willows beside the road wither early, while those by the stream are the first to grow lush.

Cicadas begin to call beyond the tower, and orioles start singing by the bridge. The willow branches block the distant view, which is vexing; their slender sprays resemble painted brows, inspiring both affection and resentment. How many travelers have journeyed far, and how many horses have been tethered to these long branches? Frost inevitably leaves the willows haggard, yet the following year they grow anew, still as graceful as before.

A Long Lament for Falling Flowers

I match wine against the blossoming flowers: the more profusely they bloom, the more freely the wine flows. The flowers last no more than ten days, yet a hundred jars of wine remain unfinished.

Falling petals caught on my sleeves bring delight; those drifting into my cup inspire tenderness too. Only the powdery butterfly shows true devotion to the flowers; the bees that flit from bloom to bloom are faithless. The flowers diminish along the wall, but fall beside the path, gathering in a sweep of red. They drift into the deep courtyard as well, adorning the quiet curtains and window lattice.

I fear the falling flowers may be carried away by running water, and worry that distant winds may blow them off. The water may at least turn and wind along its course; once the wind bears them far away, who knows where they will go? After late spring, the fallen flowers lie scattered; in the evening light, petals flutter down one by one. The pavilion still has its owner, but the visitors’ carts and horses have vanished.

The poem draws on historical allusions to portray falling flowers and separation from beloved women. In the Han dynasty, Lady Qi was persecuted by Empress Lü, and Prince Ruyi of Zhao was put to death. In the Western Jin, Shi Chong’s household was plundered amid civil unrest. At Mawei Slope, Emperor Xuanzong of Tang and Yang Guifei parted with deep reluctance; the former splendor of Shi Chong’s Golden Valley Garden, too, vanished in an instant.

Cao Zhi wrote a rhapsody in profound remembrance of the Luo River goddess; the story of King Xiang of Chu dreaming of the goddess of Mount Wu had long since ended. To speak now of seeking the Luo River goddess or recalling the goddess of Mount Wu is only to repeat an empty legend. The swallows seem still to voice their grievance, while the orioles can bring no news. If coins as green as moss could truly buy springtime, then the willow’s slender threads could sew up the fallen flowers and keep them from scattering.

Looking up sorrowfully at the ruler of heaven and earth, one finds the scene before one desolate, as though the power of creation were at work. It lets all things flourish unchecked, yet grants them not the slightest calm or repose.

How could the heart bear it when the order comes to sweep everything away? At this point, every scheme has been exhausted. A strange fragrance sinks into the very marrow, and beauty of such perfection could intoxicate even the greatest hero.

Some may boast that they can turn the Mandate of Heaven; others may pride themselves on achievements without equal. Yet once time has passed, it is hard to make things happen again. Flowers bloom and fade, their forms opposed; prosperity and decline follow the same pattern. Those who understand little of the workings of Heaven’s Way are often unable to escape anxiety and sorrow.

Fragrant grass, do not grow any longer; fine wine, do not pour another cup. If the fragrant grass keeps growing, how could the wine cup ever come to rest?

After the rain, the pavilion by the pond is quiet, and late spring fills the courtyard of the small garden. The curtains are half drawn; I have only just awakened from my drunkenness. Tender grass spreads thickly, its soft new green gradually taking shape. It sends off the fading evening sun and ushers in the gentle chill of dawn.

Fragrant grass quietly sets off a village where flowers bloom sparsely, and leisurely adorns the secluded bamboo grove. Shallow water by the stream moistens the grassy banks; in the fields, spring plowing has not yet begun.

Do not let the fragrant carriage roll over the grass, nor let the slender horses trample the turf. I entrust this endless longing to the fragrant grass, gazing at it for a long while, overcome by feeling.

From the high terrace, I gaze into the distance, and my furrowed brow begins to ease. Climbing the tall tower, I see the view suddenly open up. Low clouds at dusk glow blue-green, while distant mountains emerge in faint green outlines.

Greenery stretches to the water inlet where mandarin ducks dwell, and lush fragrant grass reaches the sandbank where willows trail in the breeze. Boats lie moored on the river beneath the night sky; at evening, vessels rest crosswise by the island’s shore.

A horn sounds from the guarded camp, and the shepherd boy plays a few notes on his flute. Two white egrets settle by the sandbank, while a flock of wild geese takes fright and rises from the ferry crossing.

Lush plants cover the road taken by the troops; fragrant grass stretches along the route of the envoy sent on imperial orders. It spreads far along the roads of travelers coming and going, winding around relay stations of every size.

The tomb of Qin Shi Huang is gradually veiled by wild grass, and weeds have overrun the cities of the Han emperors. The old Bronze Sparrow Terrace lies desolate, and the once-great city of Jinling has fallen into ruin.

Mist shrouds the past deeds of earlier generations, while dust blurs the fame of those who come after. Cunning hares still hide among dead trees, and decaying grass can yet turn into fireflies.

Even if every plant is uprooted, how could they be eradicated completely? Scarcely has the ground been burned before they begin to grow again. This can only conceal the mound of bones for a little while. May peace still endure in the world.

“A Long Song on Spring Waters”

When spring arrives, the waters naturally turn clear and green; when spring passes, their green hue fades as well. Clear water is no less fine than green water, but the green brought by spring surpasses that of autumn.

Sunlight gives the water its green, while its clarity must be sought in the cold. Green has one quality more than clear, and so seems more precious.

The thin ice has only just melted, and the light rain has just stopped. The waters stretch wide; new islets begin to appear, while the old shoals shimmer in the light. Lotus and water chestnut still droop, their leaves curled; wild rice and rushes have already sent up tender shoots. Duckweed and mugwort gradually spread, while waterweed and water shield have yet to grow thick.

In the warm sunshine, mandarin ducks bathe in the water; through the bright mist, kingfishers fly and skim above it. When the surface is calm, a pair of carp leap out; when the wind dies down, flocks of gulls play.

Travelers from Shu compete to raise their cups, while people of Ouyue vie to build jia, ancient works for controlling or blocking water. The people of Wuling recognize the Peach Blossom Spring once more; someone by the Han River casts a jade pendant into the water again. Beneath the terrace, the water flows slowly past, stretching far along the embankment. Before the railing, the water’s sheen has just begun to glimmer; at the horizon, the expanse of water grows more remote.

The spreading waters stir a sense of disquiet, yet their murmuring flow brings a quiet mood. Distant mountains cannot block the waters’ course, and the water in a branching inlet cannot be held back.

In the second month, beside the creek bridge and at the rural ferry crossings of the Three Wu region, two oars still lie across the water, as if deliberately seeing off a lone boat. The painter has just set down his brush; the poet leans against the tower, gazing into the distance. Beyond the drifting willow fluff over the Yangtze, all that stirs is the sorrow of parting.

“A Long Song on Flowers and the Moon”

In my youth, I buried myself in books and thought all worldly pleasures foolish. Now I want to make up for what I missed, but alas, my spirits are no longer as strong as they once were.

Whenever flowers bloom and willow catkins drift, the sorrow of parting still wells up in my heart.

“A Long Song on Flowers and the Moon”

In my youth, I buried myself in books and thought all worldly pleasures foolish. Now I want to make up for what I missed, but alas, my spirits are no longer as strong as they once were.

Whenever flowers bloom beneath the full moon, they stir the same feeling in the heart. How can one describe such a scene? At a moment like this, without poetry and wine for company, I would rather die than wake.

The flowers seem especially alive beneath the bright moon. Its light falls upon rare blossoms, as if adding to their radiance. One feels joined with the flowers and moon, as though wandering in the Palace of Pearls, an immortal palace of Daoist legend.

Yet one fears the moon will be veiled by clouds, and the flowers blown down by the wind. If poetry and wine do not nurture and preserve this delight, then once the lovely scene has passed, looking back on it will feel like having failed to cherish it.

Fortunately, long poems can hold these feelings, and clear wine can keep them company. By reciting poetry and drinking wine often, one can remain in lasting accord with the flowers and moon.

With flowers but no moon, one grieves as they slowly fade. With the moon but no flowers, one regrets its loneliness. Poetry gives voice to the moon’s regret; only wine can ease the flowers’ sorrow.

When the moon’s regret and the flowers’ sorrow have both vanished, one understands that poetry and wine truly have their subtle uses. To spend a little time at ease beneath the trees, behaving with elegance but without regard for convention—is this a kind of “charming transgression”?

Traveling with Prefect Li, the Attendant Secretary, to the Shangqing Palace

In Luoyang, February’s spring light shimmers. Peach and plum blossoms flourish like screens of flowers. Blossoms on high and low branches merge into a single stretch of red, while drooping willow boughs reach out above the flowering trees.

At ease, I accompany Prefect Li, the local official, out of the city to visit the immortal Shangqing Palace on Mount Mang. The former grandeur of the emperor’s westward journey is no longer to be seen. Facing the spring breeze, I spend the whole day in solitary melancholy.

Asking Assistant Minister Li for Bamboo to Plant, Suitable for Making a Flute

Casually planted wildflowers spread wherever they will, and I have never been one to pause for them lightly. But I do love bamboo joints that withstand frost, and the bamboo is also known for making “carved pipes”—that is, flutes.

When the phoenix comes, the bamboo should bear fruit. Since it can imitate the dragon’s roar, how could it fail to sound like a flute? I, a man at leisure in the mountain woods, would like to ask you for a few bamboo shoots to plant. If I can obtain them from your home, I imagine they will grow all the more luxuriantly.

Song of Longing for the Mountains

The green mountains and white clouds are right before my eyes. Considered closely, they contain boundless merit and wonder. I still do not know what the true joys of mountain life come from. Is it simply that even when hungry, one can eat meat?

A thousand awkward, plain poems could hardly give voice to the resentment in the heart; yet a cup of fragrant wine holds another kind of spring. How long do the years in the pot—the little world within a wine jar, and a life of untroubled ease—last? How many generations in the dusty world can they let grow old?

I fear only that the body may grow idle while the heart remains restless. If the heart could truly be still and clear, why move into a mountain wrapped in clouds and mist? If one could truly find ease in one’s feelings and nature, why keep laboring over gains and losses?

In daily conduct, I no longer take pains to guard against taboos; in speech, I no longer hide clever schemes. I never imagined joy could reach such heights: free as a heavenly steed, roaming without restraint and leaving no trace.

Lament for the Moon

It is not that I begrudge the gold; rather, Chang’e, the immortal maiden of the moon palace, has disappointed the human heart. Just after the moon rises, the dew in the sky has yet to dry; scarcely has it reached fullness when the heavens turn overcast.

I lean on the railing, then lean again; I pour the wine, then pour again. How could I gather the moon into the women’s inner quarters and keep it safely there? Alas, its changes, before and after, are so unpredictable that they weigh heavily on my heart.

Lament for the Flowers

Three thousand palace women all wear their court robes. They share the same longing for the ruler’s favor, yet each has her own allure. When a flower first opens, it is still delicate and restrained; halfway open, it becomes strikingly radiant.

Before the heart of the flower has unfolded, its fragrance is already spreading. Dew gathers on its petals, already enchanting the soul. Facing this jar of fragrant wine, so many thoughts stir within me; seeing the wind and rain approach, I can only watch them wantonly batter these lovely blossoms.

Reply to Zhang Ziwang on Viewing the Flowers in Luoyang

Creation has never failed us: its riot of colors reveals the natural, unfeigned beauty of things. Carriages and horses stream through the city in a lively tumult, yet not everyone has truly encountered spring.

My disciple Zhang Min, in “Viewing the Flowers of Luoyang and Presenting It to the Master,” wrote: “All my life I have loved flowers. Wherever I go, I seek out lovely blossoms, yet I have never come across one that truly moves me.

“I had thought there were no truly beautiful colors in the human world. Today, for the first time, I have seen the springtime of Luoyang.”

A Short Lament for Falling Flowers

Peaches and plums bloom in profusion throughout the garden, only to be blown down for no reason by the wild wind. When the flowers have just faded, sorrow often fills the heart; yet one should also think of the time before they bloomed.

Alas, red blossoms fade easily, unlike the deep shade of green trees, which changes so little. The ninety days of spring have all passed. How can I bear to sit before the wine jar with a furrowed brow?

A Brief Song on Fragrant Grass

Among the flowers and along the water’s edge, fragrant grass lies green as a spread-out carpet. This place has witnessed the rise and fall of the Han and Qin dynasties. Mountains and rivers stretch far and wide, and grass covers the boundless land. From ancient times to the present, how many people have grieved and mourned at the sight of it?

After severe frost has killed the plants, spring rain comes again. After wildfires have burned them away, spring returns and they grow anew. Yet there are so many weeds by the roadside that farm families must spend great effort plowing them out.

A Brief Song on Drooping Willows

The drooping willows stand beside the stream, their supple branches brushing the water in a tender, graceful pose; then fierce winds come and beat them back and forth. At dusk, thick mist veils the willow’s color. In deepest spring, the sunlight lingers late, deepening one’s helplessness.

Whose young woman wears a flowing robe of soft green silk? And where is someone dancing in garments woven with golden thread? The willow catkins seem to fear that the sorrow of those parting has not yet run its course, and keep swirling through the sky.

A Brief Song on Spring Waters

The snow melts and the ice breaks apart; clear green water fills the ditches. Kingfishers and mandarin ducks move about freely, content in autumn. The distant mountains always lie across the view, a source of regret; and it seems that in another inlet, one can hardly hold on to someone about to depart.

Willows along the embankment sway gently, while fresh shoots of rushes sprout finely by the bank. As far as the eye can see, misty waters stretch without end; the Three Wu region, in the south of the Yangtze, seems to be sending off that lone boat on purpose.

A Brief Song on the Clear Breeze

The pleasure brought by the clear breeze has not yet fully faded. Could it be that Heaven will no longer look kindly upon me? I often compose myself and study the Book of Changes, yet I also feel ashamed when I let myself grow lax and spend my time only composing verse.

I take in all the beautiful sights of the human world; worldly troubles have never furrowed my brow. I was born in peaceful times, and now, in my old age, I still live in an age of peace.

Sent to Li Shenyuan, Longtu, at the End of Spring

Year after year, I dread the end of spring. Whenever late spring comes, my body grows so weak that it can scarcely bear the season. A small gathering over wine only brings on the sadness that follows drinking; and just when the weather is right for tending flowers, the sky is always overcast.

Year after year, spring passes, and in the blink of an eye late spring comes again. Whenever spring is deep, I fall ill and can hardly endure it. After a small gathering over wine, the sadness of the drink lingers in my heart; the weather is perfect for tending flowers, yet the sky is shrouded in clouds.

Time passes easily, bringing each new year to replace the old. Though the seasons and their sights remain much the same, an old person’s state of mind can hardly return to what it once was. Only the windows of the pavilion before the gate invite quiet sitting; facing the wind, I think from afar of old friends who understood me.

Leisurely Verses in Early Summer

Deep among the green willows, orioles sing in winding, graceful phrases. Hearing their calls still fills one with the joy of a peaceful and prosperous age. Is it not a blessing for people to live long? Would Heaven bring forth these precious lives without any feeling for them?

After the peonies fade, purple cherries ripen; when the tree peonies bloom, spotted bamboo shoots emerge. A tranquil, comfortable life among woods and springs has pleasures of its own. Why give it up for the ministers and nobles?

Written on Another’s Behalf in Reply to Yao Fuzhou, Gentleman and Judicial Assistant of Kaifeng Prefecture

The world’s affairs often go against our wishes. To think only of advancing and pursuing fame and rank is truly unwise. Rather than idly turning over every matter in one’s mind, it is better to have an open conversation on West Street.

Even with extraordinary talent enough to astonish the world, what can one do when the hair at both temples has already turned white as silk? The crescent moon at the edge of the sky has always been slender; it did not take this shape to suit the painted brows of women on earth.

The letter says: “I hope you will take care of yourself. I fear you will not be able to remain for long in the woods.” Here, “in the woods” refers to a life of seclusion and leisure, far from officialdom.

Written to Zhang Du, deputy governor of Haozhou.

I am ashamed to admit that I understand nothing about music. Though I have heard of the music of Heaven, I have had no chance to seek it out. When Hui Shi served as prime minister, he had his own feelings; and the places where Zhuangzi wandered also held profound meaning.

In my leisure, I have briefly recorded what happened over the course of one spring. Even in old age, I cannot forget my longing for a friend a thousand miles away. Friends in the Luoyang community often meet. Please convey this to them for me: my hair is now white, yet I still wish to send them my thoughts in verse.

The imperial edict was issued three times, in response to my fellow townspeople, to express my wish not to enter government service.

So long as I have never done anything to make people frown, there should be no one under heaven who grits their teeth in anger at me. The blossoms have already fallen; why urge them on with rain? If what is old is good in itself, why rely on spring to adorn it?

Fortunately, I have lived under wise rulers like Yao and Shun, and may as well be content to remain a hermit outside the court, like Chao Fu and Xu You. At sixty, frail and ill, I ought to know my place. The inspecting official need not trouble himself trying to persuade me to enter government service.

Composed to the rhyme of Vice Minister Wang Anzhi

I only worry that the people of my native place do not yet know me well. Once we truly understand one another, what is there to doubt? In poverty, one may accept a salary; but in old age, I can no longer manage the demands of office.

My heart has always been set on mountains, forests, streams, and rocks—and besides, I have no talent sufficient to move the court. Had Xunzi and Yang Xiong kept faithfully to the proper bounds of a Confucian, Han Yu would not have found small faults in their writings to criticize.

Matching the rhyme of Liu, Director of the Bureau, on his gift

The workings of creation have their own deep purpose. To live as I please, the mountains and forests suit me best. In youth, frequent illness kept me from seeking a salary; now, in old age, my lack of ability makes me even less inclined to think of office.

When flowers and moonlight are quiet, I stroll along the water’s edge. Where fragrant Hui grass drifts on the breeze, I lie beneath the deep shade of pines. A peaceful nap beside an idle window is worth more to me than a noble title or gifts of gold and silver.

Written on behalf of a reply thanking Academician Wang Shengzhi for sending tea and wine vessels made of Lai stone

On the eastern mountain there is a stone like fine jade. After careful carving by a craftsman, it can be used to hold wine. You acquired one, yet could not bear to use it yourself, and took the trouble to send it far away to me, an old man living in the mountains.

This old mountain dweller ordinarily drinks from earthenware cups. When such a precious vessel suddenly arrived, I was so overwhelmed that I did not dare hold it in my hands. I repeatedly warned the children not to damage it, then carefully packed it away to await the return of my worthy friend.

I do not know when this worthy friend will return. The work by which a man establishes himself and wins a name is still unfinished. The court should first listen to those who worry for the country. Today, the greatest cause for concern is the powerful enemies on the borders, the Liao and the Western Xia—called “the two foes” in the original.

The Six Commanderies of the Han were cut off by the Liaoxi region, while the Eight Prefectures of the Tang were separated by the lands beyond the mountains. As for Ganzhou, Shazhou, and Liangzhou, the central realm has been unable to hold them for a long time. Why spend gold and silk to buy off the enemy, only to make the border threat still more troublesome?

Must we still give them gold and silk, leaving the people in even greater distress, as though their hands and feet were bound and they could do nothing? If the court had not won a brilliant victory in its council chamber, how could the frontier commander have defeated the weakened enemy in the field?

This foul, bestial presence must now be driven out completely: westward beyond Yumen Pass, and northward beyond the frontier passes. With the foxes beneath the city walls already gone, the jackals on the roads have nowhere left to flee.

The sun shines high, illuminating the roads of Heaven. The demonic miasma and turmoil disperse, sinking into dust and filth. Once the great work was done, he refused the court’s generous reward and returned his official seal. The golden seal was as large as a peck measure.

He asked leave to go to Luoyang, bid farewell to the ruler, and depart the capital. On the journey home, a warm breeze stirred the willows along the imperial avenue beside his saddle. The assembled officials formed a wall across the road, pleading with him to stay. He raised his face, flicked his whip, and rode on without looking back.

His fellow townspeople lined the road to welcome their local magistrate. In his drunkenness, he embraced the banners and ceremonial procession, their brocade-like colors shimmering around him. After dismounting to pay respects at his ancestors’ tombs and settling the handover of official duties, he did not visit the government offices, but went instead to see his friends and old acquaintances.

Only then did I understand that a man of such ability will find his moment to act. I wish you a happy birthday, long life, and good health.

The poem-letter “Sending a Lai-stone Tea and Wine Set to Mr. Shao Yaofu,” written on Wang Shengzhi and Yi Rou’s behalf, says: A precious blade cuts stone as easily as spring mud; carved into a vessel, it gleams like blue glass. I once saw and acquired this piece, but regrettably had no use for it and could not carry it with me regularly. Before, when I passed your home on Tongtuo Lane, the alleys there were deep and secluded, with scarcely a carriage or horse in sight. I had a child brew tea and pour some white wine, while you compared yourself to pottery, content with simple food and a poor life. I admire how, though you live in poverty, you remain at ease, and how not a word in conversation touches on seeking office. I lament that I bustle through the dust of the capital, long deprived of the wine cup, and often fret over plain fare of salt and greens. I sealed the vessel and set it in a corner by the wall; when it is occasionally jostled, it gives out a clear, ringing sound. Better, then, to send it specially to Mr. Shao, so it may keep you company in quiet reading and daily life. May you clear away the weeds in your fields and diligently water your vegetable beds. Perhaps next spring we can drink together; please sweep the stones beside the stream, and we will drink by the water.

The nobleman Chongde replied to everyone with “Silent Chan”: In the boundless sky, the sun moves on without pause—why labor to distinguish the roots from the dust (a Buddhist expression for the sense faculties and their objects)? The great Peng bird soars ten thousand miles without being carried in a carriage; the immortal crane lives three thousand years, with its own springtime.

No matter how much lead and tin are transmuted into gold, the result is still false. A horse painted with pigment is mistaken for a real one. But look: on a bitterly cold night when the wind is fierce, who is the one standing at the gate, feet planted firmly?

Leaning on the Rail of the Small Pavilion in the Celestial Palace

This frail body of mine, just six feet tall, has grown weaker since my illness. How can it endure growing old day after day? The intelligence I cherish so deeply has not yet had the chance to be conveyed to anyone in a single word.

There is gold in the sand, but it takes effort to sift it out; jade lies hidden in stone, yet its presence is bound to raise doubts. This loneliness and frustration deepen in the desolate evening wind from the west. I have leaned on every part of the railing, but no one knows what weighs on my heart.

Written on Another’s Behalf to Send to Daoist Wu at Yuntai Abbey on Mount Hua

Mount Hua’s Central Peak rises five thousand ren high, and people of the Dao come and go at its foot. Years ago, I glanced back from horseback; for ten years, my spirit in dreams has seemed to cross the passes and return there.

I have loved mountains all my life and can never look at them enough; so I have seen mountains throughout the world. A mountain like Mount Hua is hard to find—one that could let a person spend a lifetime in ease and freedom.

Written on Another’s Behalf to Send to Zhang Wentong, Attached to the Chang’an Staff

I have neither learning nor plans, and my mind has always been empty. My sorrow-worn heart still takes pleasure in wine; my eyes are unwell, and I dread reading.

A gentle breeze brushes the banks of the Luo River, and a light rain has just passed over the area around Tianjin Bridge. An old friend is a thousand li away. As we gaze toward each other, what do you feel in your heart?

Replying to Someone on Hearing That Han Wei Gong Has Been Appointed to Command at Yongxing and Is Passing Through Luo

Han Wei Gong (Han Qi, a renowned minister of the Northern Song) served three emperors, rose to the office of chief minister, and achieved great distinction, leaving his name for the ages. Those he nurtured and promoted are spread throughout the land. His official career weathered many storms, as though half his life had been spent amid the waves.

The chill of the night in the military tent only makes his resolve more evident. The court is calm, and the chief minister’s seat remains vacant. The sovereign is in the prime of life, and a figure like Guo Ziyi (a renowned Tang general) is still here; reclaiming the vast lands of the Hehuang region will not be difficult.

Written on Another’s Behalf to Send to Zhang Jingzhen, Transport Commissioner at Baibo

Autumn arrives across the mountains and rivers, and the scene is grand and expansive; but in my old age, I can hardly bear to gaze idly and sigh. The bond of our sworn friendship runs deep, and thoughts of you fill my heart… The original phrase “si wu zhong” is unclear in meaning.

The chill of the night in the military tent only makes his resolve more evident. The court is calm, and the chief minister’s seat remains vacant. The sovereign is in the prime of life, and a figure like Guo Ziyi is still here; reclaiming the vast lands of the Hehuang region will not be difficult.

Autumn arrives among the mountains and rivers, and the landscape appears vast and majestic. But I am old now, and as I gaze idly at the autumn scenery, I cannot help feeling wistful. Thinking of the deep affection we share, I am filled with emotion; the bonds between us, like those of brothers, move me, and the feeling lingers.

Before a chessboard with half the game still unfinished, the daylight passes away. The west wind blows, tossing my white hair into disarray. Only you and your father have known me for so long. Our resolve is as steadfast as pine and cassia, and our characters are much alike.

Written on Another’s Behalf and Sent to Magistrate Zhang Taifu of Yinjiang

I often think back to the time when we were putting our humble home in order. The brothers had just passed the examinations together. I pay little heed to the many ordinary matters of life; though we are separated by a thousand miles, we still write to each other as if we were close at hand.

In my thoughts I wander to the graceful scenery of wind and moon around Mount Siming. And now that autumn is deepening there, the mountains and rivers must be lovelier still. Yet I cannot take a light boat there for a leisurely visit. I can only read the letters from my elder and ask how he is.

A Song on Foreseeing

Those who can sense changes in things beforehand are people of our kind. Never lightly do anything that would invite the ridicule of worldly people. Rather than reveal one’s awkwardness among the crowd, it is better to live quietly, keeping a calm and unworldly heart.

Though rare flowers and unusual plants take countless forms, in the end they cannot compare with seeing them for oneself; the full moon, meanwhile, often remains in the heart. How could such hours be called wasted? I also understand that one should live freely and joyfully in this world.

An Autumn Evening in the Western Pavilion

Chrysanthemums line the railings, all blooming together and filling the air with fragrance; their scent drifts through the doors, windows, and covered walkways. In high spirits, I cannot help composing verses; and as this is the season of harvest, my joy grows all the greater.

The sights of late autumn each have their own charm. As the years advance, my bones and sinews are not what they once were, yet I remain generally in good health. After a drink, I may as well climb high and gaze into the distance: the evening clouds pile up, and the setting sun slants across the sky.

A Leisurely Stroll at Tianjin

I wander freely east and west through the city of Luoyang. For twenty years, I have lived to the full a lazy, carefree life. Old friends often come and go, treating one another with warmth and courtesy; the capital is vast, its whole aspect dignified and composed.

The pond lies still, like a lake or river; the woods are secluded, sometimes like a mountain ravine. One need not accomplish world-shaking feats to live a worthwhile life: the pleasures of quiet retirement are boundless.

Sent in Reply to Zhang Qiang’er, an Official in Chang’an

The poems of the two gentlemen are so beautiful they are beyond price. I would like to repay them, but I lack the talent of Mi Heng, courtesy name Zhengping, the gifted scholar of the Eastern Han. I had thought I was like the woman in the poem “Cypress Boat,” destined to go unappreciated. I never expected to receive such respect and praise again. “Flowing robes” originally refers to splendid ceremonial dress; here it is a metaphor for an honor of the highest rank.

Mountains rise steeply, and after rain their precipitous slopes appear even more striking. After frost has chilled the air, the moonlight and breeze seem especially clear. Since ancient times, poets have lamented how hard it is to find a kindred spirit and how few there are to answer one’s verses. The elegant melodies “Spring Sunshine” and “White Snow” are indeed worthy of their reputation.

A Letter Written on Another’s Behalf in Reply to Zhang, the Supervising Secretary of Huainan

Climbing a tree to catch fish is plainly impossible; following the fish to find a meal of grilled fish, however, may well work. Better to drink a few cups less while drinking than to seek a good remedy after falling ill.

The sacred fungus has no roots, so there is no need to labor at planting it. Since the immortal peach bears fruit, why worry that it cannot grow? I am deeply grateful for your generous affection and sincere regard. Even a small blade of grass can be nourished just like another, and flourish.

A Verse Composed on the Spur of the Moment

Those who accomplish great things are unwilling merely to imitate others. If they shrink back for that reason, would they not be abandoning a golden carriage? If one says that nothing under Heaven is difficult, how can one believe there are truly people in the world willing to shoulder great responsibility?

Doing good in harmony with the seasons is prudent planning; being at ease with human relationships and reason is a wise choice. The principles of Heaven and humanity differ by only a small step. Cross that threshold, and it is as though five lakes lie between them, making communication difficult.

A Letter Written on Another’s Behalf to a Friend

It has been more than twenty years since we parted; the years have flown like arrows, and it is hard not to sigh. We have been separated east and west, enduring many hardships. Over these years, each of us has sent the other heartfelt letters in turn.

The mountains and rivers of our hometown return to me constantly in dreams, and most of the people I once knew there have passed away. When will we speak again of old times, laughing as we open a wine jar in the autumn wind and share a cup?

A Verse on Wind Blowing Through the Leaves

Third year of Xining, 1070 CE; Shao Yong was sixty

The wind can move the leaves of a tree, but it cannot move its roots. So do not concern yourself only with the strength of your own roots. The old capital of the Son of Heaven is a pleasant place to live in quiet; the other minor affairs of the sages are not worth worrying or arguing over.

I have lived for a long time in this land of happiness, as though in the company of immortals. In my nest of contentment, I have a life of comfort and abundance. After traveling through countless rivers and mountains, I returned at last and recognized who I am.

A Verse on Wandering at Leisure

I often recall those days when I swept out a dilapidated home; the grass beside the narrow courtyard paths was never overgrown. I wanted to become someone who could govern all under Heaven and display extraordinary ability. How could I be willing to read books that went against the Way of the sages…

Immortal companions in Changnian Country, the legendary land of longevity; a person of wealth and honor in the peaceful home—a name Shao Yong gave his own dwelling, also suggesting a life of contentment. After traveling through countless mountains and rivers, I returned and only then recognized myself.

A Song While Strolling at Leisure

I often recall those days when I swept my humble dwelling. The grass beside the courtyard path was never left to grow wild. I aspired to become one of the rare masters in the world who could slay dragons. How could I be content with reading books that had nothing to do with the sages’ Way?

Once you understand whether times are favorable or adverse, you know when to advance and when to withdraw. Once you see through the changes of all things between Heaven and Earth, you know whom to draw near and whom to keep at a distance. Since grasping the meaning of the pivot at the center of change, my heart has held not the slightest trace of agitation.

I went off to Wu, then hurried on to Yue, searching everywhere for the blue sky, never knowing it was right before my eyes. When I opened my eyes and saw it, it still seemed as though a barrier lay between us. I looked up and kept searching, but there was nowhere else to find it.

Yan Yuan was at the stage when he seemed dull; Mencius had reached the state of an unmoving mind. How can one cultivate the skill to wander at ease through a shop filled with treasures? If you are always enamored of pearls, jewels, and fine jade, you cannot help worrying over money.

I cast a divination to resolve my doubts, only to end up buying doubt instead. When the roots of an illness run deep, what medicine can cure it? Explaining one dream within another is all delusion; setting another bed atop the bed is only needless excess.

Liezi rode the wind, yet in the end still depended on something. Would Kuafu, chasing the sun, not grow weary? After all that toil, no result was ever achieved: I wandered along the world’s many pointless byways.

Drinking with Flowers

People say that beyond the dusty world there are immortal realms veiled in rosy clouds. But what is there to boast of in such realms? If taking pleasure in weighing gain against loss is your way of life, then a heart free from worry and turmoil is what truly deserves to be called an immortal’s life.

A hundred years cannot be held back, and ten days of spring blossoms cannot be made to last. To face the wine with flowers for company is to do justice to fine wine; to face the flowers without wine is to do the flowers a disservice.

A Leisurely Walk in the Rear Garden After Spring Has Passed

On days when green trees cast their shade, orioles sing back and forth to one another. The water in the small channel shimmers, and the new bamboo rises in uneven clusters.

Leaning on my staff, I sang idly for a long while, then took a slow walk with my young attendant. The gentle breeze seemed to understand my heart and blew toward me on purpose.

A Letter Sent on Behalf of Someone to Assistant Administrator Wu Chuanzheng

Sincere and generous feeling is rare in this world; the events of years gone by are now difficult to recover. Frost and snow have never…