《岘泉集》Vol. 4

All sensory experiences—sights, sounds, and the rest—are as empty and illusory as flowers in the sky. Since a distant great kalpa, sentient beings have often been deluded, sunk in a dark and long realm of suffering with no end to their distress. Therefore Taiyi (a supreme deity in Daoism), holding the virtue of cherishing life, opens the gate of skillful means, raises great compassionate mind, and guides all beings so they abandon the false and return to the real, together realizing the supreme fruit of the Dao and gaining immeasurable blessing, forever leaving delusion behind.

Note: Yuan Shi Tianzun (the primordial celestial worthy) suspended a precious pearl in the primordial azure heaven, gathered the perfected, and expounded the Xianquan Erqi Jie (Precepts of the Two Qi of the Spring). It says that the changes of formation, abiding, and decay in the world are all brought about by mind; the human body is a temporary gathering of the four great elements—earth, water, fire, and wind. Whatever has form and appearance is illusion; only the formless, complete, and clear bright realm is real. Yuan Shi Tianzun long preached subtle scripture and transmitted it to Yuchen Lingbao Daojun, and thus the three grades of the Lingbao Way were handed down. He later transmitted the Wuqi Jie, which likewise teaches that worldly change arises from the mind, the body is a false combination of the four greats, and that all with form are illusory while the formless is complete and bright.

Later, the Five Old Gods transmitted this to Miaoxing Zhenren. Wénmìng Yùqīng Zhēnwáng opened the Zhūléng Fire Office and issued the fu mandate to break open hell; the Qinghua Emperor opened the Qinghua Left Office and issued the Nine Dragons fu mandate; Han Jun Zhangren opened the Zhuling Spring Office and issued the fu mandate to lift and save wandering souls; the three assisting perfected lords opened the Yellow Register Court and issued the yellow-register fu. Fu mandates are sacred documents observed in Daoist ritual, used to perform the law and deliver souls of the dead.

Thus the ancient three masters, following the Taizhu Jing, compiled the refinement-and-salvation esoteric texts to deliver the souls of the dead, extending grace to the dark realm. Lingbao Tianzun transmitted these methods to Taqing Daode Tianzun; related hidden scriptures were then passed on so their deep meaning gradually became clear, handed down generation after generation.

In the Han dynasty, our lineage’s celestial master (Tianshi) received the transmission of Supreme Orthodox Unity (Shangzhen Yiyi); these scriptures continued to be proclaimed. At the beginning of the Longhan kalpa, scriptures such as Hundong Chiwen and Fanwu Miluo were written at the brush of Tianzhen Huangren; their content consists of cave-chapter spirit fu. Above, they can uphold heaven’s fortune and dispel disaster and calamity; below, they can refine and deliver the dead and save the living. The scriptures also announce throughout the boundless spirit villages and Beidu Ququ, praying that sin registers be quickly removed and evil roots destroyed.

Then the demon king—a deity who rules ghosts and spirits—speaks on the person’s behalf; earthly deities (diqi) escort and receive them, claiming and pulling out the karmic burden from the earthly gate (di hu). Proclamation goes out to the divine realm of Wuji (the boundless) and to Beidu Ququ (the spring-bend of the northern capital, the underworld), so that registers of sin are quickly cleared and evil roots destroyed. Thus one may ascend to perfection and have life redeemed through du ren (salvation of beings).

This numinous scripture and hidden classic is stored in the Celestial Treasury (tian fu). Under the arcane canon (xuan ke), it is transmitted only once every forty kalpas; unless one has a spiritual root from former lives, one cannot hear its boundless subtle teaching. It is guarded by the weightiest arcane prohibitions—how could it be lightly revealed? What is subtle within it is hard to put into words.

The way of du ren comes from Lingbao (Numinous Treasure). An immortal master said: “Lingbao is the treasure of the Golden Elixir (jindan).” Wood and metal stand apart; water and fire clash—how can nature and life (xing and ming) blend and return to the root? One must set up the Qian-Kun cauldron and vessel, refine the Kan-Li medicinals, seize the images of the two modes (liang yi), and unite Yin-Yang with dragon and tiger; take the pre-heaven true one Qi as foundation and the patterns of Yin-Yang movement as law. Change through activity and stillness follows Yin-Yang and the hexagrams; the firing phases of the celestial circuit are arranged accordingly. The Lingbao method connects with the Golden Elixir path; Lingbao and Golden Elixir use the four lines as tokens of ascent and descent, with the subtle logic of inversion and reversal within.

Whoever grasps these laws can draw mercury from a single grain of sand and pass through a thousand transformations without losing the way. A slip of a hair’s breadth in practice affects the outcome; the crux is the way of “three-five returning to one”: open the reclining moon, turn the celestial root, run the circuit along the yellow path, until the spirit embryo completes and returns to truth. In antiquity the supreme primordial lord (wushang yuan jun) obtained the nine-five way, and the Five Thunder lords obtained the three-one way—there is no difference in principle. What the Hetu, Luoshu, and Jiangtu reveal is the root of heaven-and-earth generation.

“Lingbao” (Spiritual Treasure) means that when spirit-vital energy (Shen and Qi) condenses, it becomes “ling” (spirit); when yin qi condenses, it becomes “bao” (treasure). In practice, one must gather the obscure, unfathomable yin of primordial unity (Hunyuan), refine the essences of the sun soul and moon soul, pass through constellations such as Southern Sieve and Eastern Well, apply the true fire of supreme yang, and bring down the yellow flower of great yin. Then the Wu earth of the moon essence at the Kan position and the Ji earth of solar light at the Li position are blended with the five yin qi, the circuit of heaven is completed in one revolution, and what was originally formless is condensed into form, reaching Zhuling—the realm in Daoism where souls are refined and salvaged. Thus departed souls can be universally liberated, dead spirits regain life; after spirits and souls undergo refinement at Zhuling, they can be reborn and transformed anew. This is like the qi of empty unity manifesting as Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), and ultimately returning again to non-being.

Therefore the perfected person (zhi ren) cultivates this method to refine and nourish the self, and also extends it to deliver others. In truth it is the true yang qi of heaven and earth, used to awaken yin souls so they may ascend at every moment. From this we know that “Lingbao” is also another name for the Golden Elixir (Jindan).

You souls who have long been sunk in suffering have endured pain for many years. Now, through the supreme great jiao (Zhaijiao purification ritual) that the ritual sponsor so-and-so has established, you receive the compassion of the Dao in a dharma assembly rarely met in a thousand lifetimes, and can at once be liberated. The subtle meaning set forth above—hearing it once suffices to make you seeds of the holy Way forever.

Only your self-nature dharma body—the real nature you already possess—was originally neither defiled nor subject to birth and death; because of clinging and deluded thoughts you could not awaken and be free. The scripture says: “Sentient beings in the three realms originally do not revolve in samsara; the single qi of the one Way originally has no birth or death. Though the sea of suffering is boundless, turning back is the shore.” Thus once awakened, karmic obstructions are empty by nature; if not yet awakened, past debts must still be repaid.

When the wise hear or see what is wrong and form mistaken views, they should sweep away such delusions. When the foolish have no direction in practice, obscuring their nature and acting blindly, they should all the more awaken suddenly. The rich are bound thought by thought; the poor cling and grasp thought by thought. Planting such karmic causes—how can one escape the wheel of rebirth? Therefore the cultivators of old urged stopping deluded thoughts, still as cold ash and extinguished fire, dead wood and stubborn stone; only by ceasing this one thought can one mirror every illusion and no longer cling to any circumstance. Planting such karmic causes—how can one escape rebirth? For this reason the adepts of former times advocated resting deluded thoughts, quiet as cold ashes and snuffed flames, withered trees and mute stones.

Only when you single-mindedly abide in the thought of cessation can you reflect and clearly see every illusion, and no longer cling to anything outside. Moreover, human coming has no beginning and going has no end; birth, at root, is not real birth, and death is not real death. That subtle, luminous original nature, though spoken of as “existing,” is not bound by form and endures through all ages.

Because people take passionate attachment as their root, thoughts and impulses pile up in the mind and become karmic force; thus arise the many kinds of rebirth and the many kinds of retribution. Through thousands of lives and myriad kalpas, turning in samsara and suffering in cycles without end, one often fails to notice at all.

The fourfold assembly here—monastics and lay devotees alike—and the departed souls now being released: I speak with speech that is not speech; please listen with a heart that does not listen. Strive for awakening where there is neither speaking nor hearing. Once you fully understand, you will no longer be pulled by the ten thousand causes and conditions, and you can transcend the many kinds of illusion. Then the disturbances arising from the three karmas of body, speech, and mind, and from the six roots of eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind, can all cease at once.

Turn back and suddenly awaken, and you will find that past pleasures and pains and every bond were never anything to grasp; you should right in this moment directly realize: there was never real birth before, and there is no real death now. Even if you tried to find those bonds, they could not be obtained—how much less can the chaotic thoughts about being and non-being claim any truth? Do not think this nature exists only while alive and vanishes after death. However many kalpas pass, however many bodies you leave and enter, your original nature is never destroyed. It is only that you yourself are deluded and unaware.

If you can understand your own nature and observe that wondrous, clear, and lively mind, it is not limited by speech or silence, action or stillness, nor does it cling to the border between being and non-being. It is like a mirror bright once filth is cleared away, or the moon’s image appearing when the water is still. “Emptiness that is not empty” is true emptiness; “thought that is no-thought” is true mindfulness. The ten thousand things can all be penetrated; every thought can be fully unobstructed. This is like a thousand rivers each reflecting the same moon, or ten thousand miles of sky with no cloud—altogether clear.

If you do not break through the boundaries in your mind, you will still be trapped in the old nest; you must look directly and realize for yourself—do not miss this moment face to face. A hundred kinds of practice gates and measureless subtle meanings can all be realized in a single turning point. From then on, not a thought arises and the ten thousand conditions are still; offenses as numerous as grains of sand in the Ganges are likewise dissolved. Only this original face is the true immortal and the patriarch of the Way. Thus, how could you still be bound by the sufferings of hell, evil paths, and the wheel of rebirth?

The ultimate attainment in cultivation is that all illusion returns to emptiness, and only the unchanging true nature appears. This original face is the root of the true immortal and the Dao ancestor. At this point, what hell, evil paths, or the bondage of endless turning in suffering and inability to escape remain?

All illusion returns to emptiness; only the real manifests. Great emptiness has no fixed form—and this is your true nature. When the multitude heard this dharma sound, they suddenly understood, recognized their own true self, cut off the path of rebirth from then on, practiced carefully without backsliding, and often protected and upheld it. Thus they could reach a broad, complete, clear, unobstructed state; and when they looked again at outer forms and appearances, they no longer clung to them. In this way they could transcend the Three Realms (desire realm, form realm, formless realm) and wander freely in Shangqing (the clear subtle heaven honored in Daoism).

For souls still sunk in the lower realms who have not yet fully awakened to the principle of true constancy, the precepts should be transmitted so they do not continue to sink. Now the Nine True and Marvellous Precepts (Daoist precepts) are respectfully proclaimed, and first all beings are led to take refuge in the Three Treasures (Dao, scripture, teacher) so they have something to rely on. Then the spring souls (souls in the nether world) are told that all should observe and practice them.

The dharma is taught broadly to all.

At the beginning of Taiji (the primordial state before the cosmos and all things had differentiated), clarity and turbidity began to be distinguished, and yin and yang were thereby separated. Heaven and earth each took their proper places, and the myriad things could thus grow; the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) appeared, and the transformations of the myriad things arose from this—endless generation and transformation, continuing without limit. The Five Phases return to yin-yang, and yin-yang return to Taiji. The mandate of Heaven runs its course, endowing the myriad things with their nature; when nature stirs, li (principle) is already present within; when li manifests, emotion is expressed outwardly. All these changes stem from the growth and decline of yin and yang and the ascent and descent of the Five Phases. Thus water and fire clash, thunder and lightning contend, hard and soft interact, and the Bagua (Eight Trigrams) push and pull against one another; thunder and lightning drive change, wind and rain nourish the myriad things.

The movement of yin and yang qi is presided over by the numinous; the waxing and waning of the myriad things is presided over by the Emperor (Di). Yet movement and stillness have no fixed starting point, and yin and yang have no absolute beginning. When this is applied to the human heart, the power that governs the myriad things is called “Emperor (Di),” and the subtle power of transformation is called “ghost and spirit (gui-shen).” Heaven and earth are vast, and yin and yang run within them—how could there be no presiding power? This is what “Emperor (Di)” means.

The profound origin of our Way traces to Yuanshi Tianwang (Primordial Heavenly King), who after the Kaihuang era transmitted the path of Lingbao Great Vehicle and the Ten Sections of the Ziwei Feitian scriptures. These classics were passed to Yuchen Dadaojun and reached the Nine Sovereigns of Shenxiao. Later Yuanshi Tianwang descended to Mount Emei and transmitted the dharma gate to Tianzhen Huangren, from which the method of refinement and salvation (liandu) arose. Tradition holds that at the beginning of the Longhan era there was the spontaneous qi of the Nine Yangs; Yuanshi ordered Tianzhen Huangren to write according to the decree and keep the text hidden in the Dongyang repository. When the Zhuling Fire Prefecture (the place in Daoism where souls of the dead are refined and saved) was opened, the documents for reviving the dead were also entrusted to him. Thus the Niandu documents evolved from the Taishu scripture method.

During the kalpa of Longhan—one of the primordial cosmic cycles in Daoist cosmology—the subtle Way of Qingwei Mysterious Profundity was transmitted to Daojun, and the inner method of Xuchu yingyun was handed down to Laojun (Lord Lao). Later, Lingbao Tianzun passed the supreme Qingwei formula of penetrating mystery to Miaohua Tiandi; the Most High also transmitted this method in succession. My founding master, the Han Celestial Master (Zianshi) Zhang Daoling, handed it down from heart to mouth through the generations—this is the orthodox lineage of Qingwei. In the Yuan dynasty, the Primordial Lord Shichen Yihui Zujun united these transmissions under the name “Qingwei Lingbao Daode Zhengyi” (Orthodox Unity of Qingwei, Lingbao, and Daode).

After the Taiji Immortal Xu attained the Dao through cultivation and received the command of the Most High, he transmitted the wondrous scriptures of the ten sections of Lingbao. Xu passed them to the Immortal Sanzuo, who oversaw all matters of salvation and deliverance. Sanzuo in turn passed them to the Taiji Left Official Immortal Lord, and thus the Lingbao line continued to spread. Those who once greatly promoted this teaching included the Du, Lu, Ning, and Zhang lineages, among which these four houses flourished most. Later, the masters who made this transmission widely known again were especially renowned: the two patriarchs Lin and Bai.

The scriptures say that Dongzhen (the Cavern of Realities, one of the Three Caverns of Daoist canon) issued scriptures to deliver the world, under the name of Yuanshi; Dongxuan (Cavern of Mysteries) inherited the teaching and took the name Lingbao; Dongshen (Cavern of Spirit) expounded the teaching and called it Daode (Moral Virtue). Though the three names differ, their root is one.

In former times Yuanshi Tianzun (Primordial Heavenly Worthy) ordered the Jade Purity True King to establish the Zhuling Fire Bureau, the Qinghua Great Emperor to establish the Qinghua Left Bureau, Han Jun Zhangren to establish the Zhuling Right Bureau, and the Immortal Sanzuo to establish the Huangfeng Court. He also transmitted talismans such as those of Jade Purity for breaking hell, and documents such as the three memorials and five talismans. When Daoist priests perform rites and refine and deliver the souls of the dead, submitting petitions to the passes and bureaus of the netherworld, they employ these ritual texts so that beings in the dark realm may awaken and be saved. The Shenxiao line, descending from the Qingwei transmission, likewise uses documents belonging to this same system.

Therefore the Exalted Shenxiao Jade Purity True King, the Great Emperor of Longevity, specially governs the Nine Heavens and the Thirty-Six Heavenly Lords; all thirty-six lords are under the Great Emperor’s command. The Great Emperor embraces the celestial patterns and holds yin and yang in hand, so affairs of divine thunder also fall under his authority. Long ago the Supreme Primordial Lord realized the way of “nine-five.” The scripture says that whoever obtains this way becomes the sovereign lord who commands divine thunder.

The Five Thunder Lords (deities who govern the thunder methods of the five directions) thereby realized the “Way of Three-One Thunder.” “Three” is the root number of the east; “one” is the generating number of the north. The immortal master said: “Taiyi Yuanjun (a supreme deity in Daoism) revealed the utmost true principle and openly transmitted the method of ‘Three-Five’ to ordinary people.” This is the thunder method.

From the Lingbao school’s teaching, heaven and earth are vast; the sun soul and moon soul (spiritual essences symbolizing the sun and moon), together with yin-yang qi, constantly rise and fall in ceaseless motion. To deliver the dead, refine and redeem the deceased so they may receive new life; and likewise to enable the living to attain deliverance—the principle here is to use one’s own yang spirit to refine the other’s yin soul, so yin and yang unite and return to Taiji (Supreme Ultimate); harmonize temperament and revert to the true origin. Thus it is said: when spirit and qi are gathered, they become numinous; when refined qi is gathered, they become treasure. Spirit is nature (xing); qi is life (ming).

From empty space descends wondrous subtle qi; in the great void spirit is produced. Emptiness and qi congeal into a golden embryo—this is the most true within the most true. Therefore one must gather spirit and qi into the three Dantian (upper, middle, and lower energy centers) and the five viscera, and in accord with the law by which the Dao of heaven operates, restrain intent and return to one’s nature, so that nature returns to its root. Then water and fire mutually aid each other, and the path of cultivating both nature and life is complete.

Thus the Dao takes its images from the sun and moon within the body and emulates the law of water and fire in motion. With one’s own luminous yang, one awakens the other’s yin soul; borrowing the nine-yang qi of the nine heavens, one refines form and purifies the bodily frame; riding the compassionate light of the High Lord, one illuminates the darkness of the nine springs (the nether realm). Then sins are cleared, the spirit soul is whole, and one may transform and obtain new birth.

The number three in the east belongs to wood; united with the number two in the south belonging to fire, it signifies the dragon reborn from within fire. The number four in the west belongs to metal; united with the number one in the north belonging to water, it signifies the tiger reborn from within water. Wu and ji belong to central earth, symbolizing the mind intent at the center. Three and five unite and return to one—this is precisely the subtle principle of Kan and Li mutually aiding each other. When Kan and Li are fulfilled, the myriad methods return to the center; only then does one understand the efficacy of “Three-Five” cultivation.

As for Fulu (talismans and registers), ritual briefs, Keyi (liturgy) rules, and the like—these are the rites within the categories of Daoist methods, merely steps on the ladder of entering the Dao and paths toward seeking the true. If one does not seek the Dao through self-cultivation, how can one rely on the work of refining oneself to deliver others?

To investigate the principle within, in the end nothing fails to return to the One. The Five Thunder Lords (deities who oversee the thunder methods of the five directions), having obtained the Way of Three-in-One (the principle that three return to one), thereby deploy the subtle function of the Two Dips; this also corresponds to the numbers and pattern in the Hetu (ancient numerological diagram). Thus “Three-in-One” and “Nine-Five” are not different.

The pivot of yin and yang turns together: thunder is the benevolent aspect, lightning-bolt (ting) the fierce; yang is thunder, yin is ting. The seventy-two offices of thunder and ting (spirit-offices that govern thunder duties) are all gathered under this. Kui Wai is the spirit-office that issues writs and dispatches thunder. The power of thunder and ting is drawn from the central qi of heaven and earth: jia and geng are the commands of thunder and ting, corresponding to the function of nine-five; ren is the bureau of thunder and ting, bing the assembly, zi the ancestral source. Hence zi is the thunder bureau, mao the thunder gate; wu and gui preside over the office of thunder-fire. Every transformation and effect arises from aligning with the subtle principle of nine-five.

Fire Master Wang Zhenjun and Attendant-Court Wang Zhenjun received transmission from the Thunder Crone (Lei Lao), and thereby fully disclosed the inner secret. A person receives a single point of spiritual light and, with heaven and earth, stands as one of the “Three Powers” (heaven, earth, humanity). The creating-and-transforming and yin-yang changes within one body can run together with heaven and earth without conflict. That bit of luminous spirit in our heart illumines heaven and earth; it endures from antiquity to the present, yet few recognize it. Confucians call it “empty spirit, never obscured”; Buddhists call it “wondrous pure bright mind.” One should realize it in the immediate present: it is neither the mind of wandering thought nor something that can be grasped as an object; like meeting face to face, it flashes forth in an instant, vital impulse stirs—it is not far away, nor does it belong to the discriminating attachment of seated meditation.

The scripture says: “When heaven releases the killing mechanism, heaven and earth overturn; when heaven and humanity release together, the myriad changes fix their foundation.” What is meant by heaven and humanity releasing together if not the common turning of the yin-yang pivot? A person can align with heaven because central qi is harmonized. The efficacy of ghosts and spirits is a natural capacity of yin qi; if one can employ the pivot of opening and closing and change within oneself, then this place responds and that place answers. All things first arise from the chaotic state before the great Brahma’s vast emptiness and the red script of the mixed void; afterward the five sections unfold, the dharma of the ten thousand kinds is established thereby, the five texts appear, and spirits consequently arise everywhere.

Therefore, there is no method of practice that cannot deliver sentient beings, and none that cannot help people attain birth and renewal. Broadly speaking, they can stabilize the state and guard the nation’s fortune, and enable people to verify the Dao and become true immortals; in a narrow sense, they can preserve oneself, bring peace to the household, help others, and benefit the myriad things. All of these effects depend on the movement of a single Qi and on the mutual generation and restraint among the Five Phases. The practitioner, with the Yuan Shen refined through countless kalpas, employs the spirit of emptiness so that spirit and Qi unite; when Qi circulates fully, the numinous also appears. Thus cultivation never departs from the present moment, and the mind-ground can remain clear and settled; if one seeks outwardly, one cannot see the true Dao.

These methods were established so that each could display its distinct function. The Shenxiao method embraces Yin-Yang as if in the palm; the Zhankan method issues orders and carries them out; the envoy method stirs the River of Heaven with the Dipper’s handle; the Thunder Gate method deploys water and fire; the Dongxuan method opens and closes Yin-Yang; the Sheling method commands spirits and deities; the Jiansha method strikes the stars. As for documents and oral formulas, each has its own form and use. In the end, all these Dao methods arise from the subtle function within the practitioner’s body and mind—they do not rely merely on paper, implements, and outward form; the method (fa) is the operation of the Dao. Though the names of the various arts are many, the root is always the pre-heaven Great Dao. When one deploys one’s own Yuan Shen, expanded it fills the six directions above and below; gathered in, it does not fill a single hand; when the Yuan Shen moves, the myriad spirits move with it.

The immortal master said: “When cultivation of nature and life is mastered, the methods are mastered.” Embryonic-breathing cultivation takes the aperture as its application, and every method likewise takes the heart as its root. When the heart penetrates, one understands the true essentials of gathering and applying the methods. Therefore, those who enter training to study the Dao must first investigate the subtle function of the xuanguan (mysterious pass), the source of water and fire, and the principle of returning to the root and restoring life; only then can the ten thousand affairs be gathered into one, and scattered thoughts finally return to unity.

Note: Several phrases in the original text are clearly corrupt; the above follows the discernible meaning in smooth, readable English.

If one cannot inwardly understand one’s true nature, the laws of the Way of Heaven, and the thunder method in the heart, how can one refine the Golden Elixir in stillness or wield thunder’s power in movement? Cultivation must take precepts to restrain conduct, firm resolve to set direction, and diligent exertion to open the path.

The master said: “Within true nature there is numinous spirit of its own; beyond sincere mind there is no other gate.” Thus the myriad things return to the One, and every thought in the end must also return to unity. Practice should take preserving sincerity and nurturing Qi as the root, and penetrating the subtle and grasping the pivot as application. If one can embrace the primordial and guard the One, govern Qi and concentrate spirit, until the six consciousnesses (the functions of seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching, and mental discrimination) clear and subside, true nature will naturally appear. At that point one is oneself the dharma king who masters the great thunder method—why still cling to talismans and incantations? Even to transcend the three realms and leave behind the myriad transformations is not difficult.

As for the work of succoring the world, even ordinary things like a mud pill or a straw rain cape can serve as vessels for numinous power; wielding wind and thunder in conversation is merely an extra skill of the practitioner. Yet the secrets of transmitting the dharma and the mysteries of talismanic writing are recorded in cloud script (the script of golden registers and similar Daoist talisman texts) and in golden statutes and jade registers; they must be solemnly transmitted according to celestial law and covenant, lest practice begin but never finish.

The celestial truth and wondrous treasure must be transmitted according to the cycles of kalpas and the right moment. Receiving ordination, entering the Way, and accepting the ritual precepts of the primordial celestial origin all carry extremely weighty rules and vows. Disciples beneath the altar, through causes across many lifetimes, have gained this good fortune and received immortal rank; now reporting upward to the vastness of heaven and earth, ordination is conferred according to liturgy—therefore the subtle meaning of the scriptures is proclaimed, so people learn to abandon branch streams and seek the root, to discard the branch tips and grasp the trunk. Whoever can turn inward and verify in their own heart already has teacher enough.

You must not lightly disclose or neglect the dharma, lest you violate prohibitions. You should cultivate diligently, guard the precepts carefully, and probe the subtle; long application without slackening, until self and things are forgotten and numinous spirit and person are one. Then one may tread the luminous realm and ascend to perfection, of one substance with the Great Void.

In the end, before heaven and earth had yet divided, where could one set the brush? The myriad laws return to one—then where does that One return?

Everyone must diligently advance in cultivation and carefully receive the dharma teaching—do not be negligent.

The unfolding of the dharma and contemplative practice ultimately merge with the Great Void (Tai Xu—the boundless empty expanse) as one. Yet before heaven and earth were divided, from what point could one begin to write? The myriad methods return to the One; after returning to the One, whither do they return again? Everyone must diligently advance and carefully receive the dharma teaching—do not be negligent.

Memorial for Fundraising at Yanfa Guan (Observatory for Expounding the Dharma)

Yanfa Guan was first established in the late Han; its halls were founded in the early Tang. Since large-scale reconstruction in the Yuan, the years have been long and decay has set in. Though repairs were attempted, the work required is vast. We therefore respectfully seek donations from all benefactors, hoping you will recall the grace of return and together complete this good work.

Respectfully submitted: Ancestral Celestial Master Zhang Daoling (founding patriarch revered in Daoism), descended with the Star of Literary Fortune (Kuixing), once brought forth auspicious signs amid cloud-brocade and hibiscus; this mountain gathers the spirit and beauty of the Liang and Chu regions and has long held the qi of dragon and tiger in manifestation. The temple was first built in the Han; the hall court rose in the Tang. Twelve hundred years have passed. In former times this place belonged to one of the Twenty-four Administrations (early Celestial Master districts); Daoist transmission grew ever more honored and pure custom flourished the more.

Alas, wind and rain have worn away the corridors until they lean and collapse. To repair halls needed for the Daoist cause is both the duty of the lineage and a shared chance for cultivators to forge merit. May all give generously so that merit nurtures like spring wind and peach trees bear fruit again; may the vows made before the month bring the work to completion so ancient cauldrons shine anew. When finished, the halls will be like palaces adorned with pearl and jade, no less than the Crimson Terrace and Purple Mansions (legendary abodes of immortals). Donors’ names will be entered in the register of long life to share enduring blessing; merit will be recorded in the book of great accomplishment, and all may witness unbroken auspicious signs. May the subtle wind of the Dao long endure and the nation’s fortune stretch without limit.

Fundraising Preface for Jingtong Hermitage

Jingtong Hermitage is where the Thirtieth Celestial Master, Perfect Lord Xujing (Song Celestial Master Zhang Jizhi), cultivated. The Perfect Lord was born in the flourishing age of the Song; he once built a hut on Round Mountain Summit and his practice and merit had already shown clear fruit.

Jingtong Hermitage was where the thirtieth-generation Celestial Master, the Perfected Master of Empty Stillness, cultivated. Born in the Song dynasty, he once built a hermitage on the summit of Mount Yuan to practice; his achievement and virtue soon became widely known. During the Chongning era, Emperor Huizong of Song held Daoism in especial esteem. The Perfected Master was on close terms with Wang Shichen Wenqing and Lin Shichen Lingsu, and received considerable favor from the emperor. When they led prayer rites and sought auspicious signs, extraordinary phenomena appeared. Before long the fortunes of Song declined, and the Perfected Master successively passed away in seated meditation. His transcendent words and deeds and his outstanding achievements are recorded in the relevant biographies.

Since the Song and Yuan, Jingtong Hermitage has been burned in warfare time and again and rebuilt several times. With the years, the halls inevitably tilted and fell into ruin. Though repair of the mountain’s own Daoist temples ought to come first, manpower and funds were insufficient, so help had to be sought from the community. Hence this brief fundraising text was written and sent to generous elders, in hope they would contribute funds to complete the good work of restoring the temple, so that the Perfected Master and the spirits in his lineage might long retain renown and offerings.

The Dao was honored in the Han; orthodox immortal lineages record the deeds of thirty generations of Celestial Masters. Daoist teaching flourished in the Song, elucidating the profundities within the five thousand words of the Daodejing. Just when Emperor Huizong exalted Daoism, the Perfected Master together with the Shichen—high-ranking Daoist officials—made the Way manifest: in the hall court they subdued fierce generals; in the tidal waters they appeared and quelled demon dragons. Spirits such as the Azure Dragon and White Tiger seemed to keep company like green bamboo and jade trees; though the age bore the calamities symbolized by the Red Horse and Red Sheep, the accounts still remain in histories and temple records.

Now that the sanctuary honoring the Perfected Master has been put in order, it should still be diligently maintained—repairing the old and renewing what is worn; this requires everyone’s donations. May the temple rise anew like the legends of the crane returning to the Liao sea or the crow transformed at Sizhou, and once again stand lofty as a jade terrace. May all join in strength so the sanctuary is protected and all share in the blessings of the spirits.

End of Xianquan Ji, juan 7.

Xianquan Ji, juan 8

Composed by Celestial Master Zhang Yuchu of Mount Qishan, Wuwei lineage

Fu (Rhapsodies)

“On Tranquil Emptiness”

In the remotest beginning, heaven and earth were one vast chaos, still and silent; from this all things received their life. When chaos first opened, yin and yang, the two modes, and the celestial patterns were arrayed in order; movement and stillness became the root of change in the ten thousand things, …

When heaven and earth first unfolded, all was originally empty and formless, yet from that very void the myriad things received their vitality. Primordial chaos began to differentiate; the images of yin and yang gradually appeared and became the guiding pattern for how all things move. Activity and stillness alternated; yin and yang lines succeeded one another in arrangement, and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) took shape from this. Sun, moon, and stars each followed their own laws, and the three powers of Heaven, Earth, and Humanity were established and measured against one another. Between heaven and earth, above and below, the scope was vast and hidden; the ten thousand things grew and changed accordingly. The subtle interplay of yin-yang, the Five Phases, and the three powers merged as if circling a hub, gathering inward.

Coiled primordial qi turned and flowed; light flickered, indistinct and hard to grasp. Only when the mind is quiet and free of attachment can one seek the “mysterious pearl” (xuanzhu)—the treasure that symbolizes the great Dao—in the midst of emptiness; it is like receiving that pearl from the hand of Xiangwang (the figure in the parable who has no fixed form or image, and thereby attains the Way). When the inner mind is clear, though it may be as small as a grain of millet, it seems like rising vapor and a bright rainbow. Hold to the inner rule and remain hidden in the depths; let restless, mixed breath open out and become pure and harmonious. Restore the balance of yin and yang between heaven and earth, matching the descent and ascent of qi as wheel and spokes work together. Bathe in the light of Yanggu (the eastern valley where the sun rises) and ride the wind in free wandering; it is as if one drives a numinous steed to pay homage to the spirit lord in the brightness. One swallows jade fluid and cassia dew (terms in Daoist practice for the sweet, vital moisture within), dwelling in a fragrant, flourishing realm of immortals.

Then the master transmits the teaching and names it “primordial obscurity” (hunmang): passing beyond plain simplicity into a realm deep and far. Wash away distracting thoughts so that subtle, refined qi returns to inner authenticity. Guide the dark, fine breath; gather and harmonize the six qi (the six kinds of atmospheric and cosmic breath that circulate and transform in heaven and earth). Fill the darkness of the Kan trigram with the clarity of the Li trigram, then halt the carriage and turn a single cycle of breath. Round and round without a starting point; as qi spirals and flows, there are also times when it sinks and stills. The practitioner hopes thereby to gain release and ascent; the crux lies in grasping the pure, authentic meaning of how the six qi operate.

How did immortals such as Chisongzi and Wangziqiao live so long? Why should they be compared with ordinary pines? Did they merely cling to life, hiding in valleys to endure hardship? They held an aspiration as pure and firm as frost and ice, treating the illusory present world as fine dust. What in worldly splendor is truly fine? What is there to say for sinking into filth and ease? I lament my own dull talent and can only long in vain for the fragrant resolve of former times. The ancients’ admonitions are many and hard to clarify, so the vows in my breast cannot unfold. I wish to understand and peacefully follow heaven and earth’s nurturing transformation, to set aside outer scales and burdens and withdraw to guard the Dao. Cast off empty laziness, lay down the whip in hand, knock at the broad heaven and earth, and seek the path that leads to the great Dao. Cut off early appetites for worldly sound and color, and the vast tone of the Dao seems almost within hearing.

When Hu Kangpao beheld treasure, why should he still fondly recall Shang Dun? Alas, handle and mortise misfit—as if the stuff in which he was once steeped were not the same. Why still cling to that radiant shining, always longing for glory yet sighing over his own haggard decline? Who does not hold fast to his own integrity? Looking up to Laozi and Liezi, they are still honored today.

Yang Xiong held firm to the learning of the profound, cherishing the root and keeping himself closely restrained; Qu Yuan wandered far, yet in his heart he too harbored the wish to take in refined qi. He washed away the heavy and turbid and waited in empty stillness—only for now rinsing his mouth with clear spring water, still somewhat hesitant. From afar he turned toward the light and watched the margins and bounds; he ought to have surrendered the body for purity, like a cicada shedding its old shell. Jia Yi once grieved over the great bird; once life and death are understood, what is there left to fear?

How could he harness the clear wind, fly to Lieque, and let thunderbolts strike at will? To treat his own body as a superfluous appendage—is that so he might be dragged down by outer things? Morning stars sparse and scattered, only remnant light dissolving away. Lamentable is the filth and narrowness of the world; wandering alone, grief in his heart. He braided orchids into a pendant, wishing to give it away; he picked ivy and usnea to convey his intent. He wished to follow the fragrant purity of former worthies, yet felt only that they were lofty and beyond reach. He gathered dew on chrysanthemums and lamented his own constrained nature and the indignity of his form. To see all things and the self as equal is to meet a dead end with open ease—why worry? Looking up at the majestic phoenix soaring high—why would it stint its virtue and radiance? Fearing that the lame Ao moves with difficulty, he mounted a cart of glue and rode the wheel spokes, yet had no chariot box.

He wished to go to Danqiu to inquire and seek teaching—who knew that there was only speechless, deep silence?

Song

Song of Mount Qi

At the mountain’s summit—nowhere to climb. He mounted a cart of glue, yet there was no chariot box. He wished to go to Danqiu to inquire and seek teaching—who knew that there was only speechless, deep silence?

Song

Song of Mount Qi

On the high mountain—do not look at the tortoise. The trees of Mount Lu—do not let the axe strike them.

The forest is deep—one can only dwell in seclusion. My purpose abandoned by the world, I alone sing my song.

From the first creation there was already action—alas, how could I ever see it with my own eyes?

Song of the Woodcutter’s Return

I dwell among mountains and forests—who else can grasp the sorrow in my heart? My spirit yearns toward what is lofty; how could I fail to follow this path?

Those who cherish the ancients wish only to hold fast to their steadfast integrity. I gather firewood myself—why should anyone cut and harm it?

That ox is covered with lush grass; what could I measure by going there? No one in the world understands my mind—why should I grieve over my own words?

Peilan Cao (Song of Wearing Orchid)

The orchid spreads its fragrance; its substance is soft, fine, and pure. I wish to wear it on my body—who can read what is in my heart?

What is near seems far; frost and snow cannot break it. What is far seems close at hand—yet thorns grow thick there.

I planted orchids and hid them away, grieving that they are buried deep and unseen. Hide them, hide them—do not release your scent; do not display your beauty.

Ni Shen Shi (In Imitation of Divine Release)

The patterns of heaven and earth are deep and hard to fathom; the ten thousand things shift and return in endless change. The highest principle runs through the cosmic transforming process; all birth, growth, and propagation spring from one source.

Still, subtle power holds the fine pivot; hidden workings move and nurture the growth of things. Decline and increase, bending and stretching alternate in turn; the mysterious, blended root embraces all things.

Clear, luminous Dao penetrates the beginning of things—how can turbid qi scatter or bind it? Are early death and long life truly two different roads? Length of life, in the end, is still shaped by the turns of fortune.

Song Qiao (the legendary immortals Wang Ziqiao and Chisongzi) drive their chariots and leave transcendent tracks. I lift my head hoping to follow them—flying alone, chasing from afar.

I accord with nature and rest within the dusty world—how can I leave its stains? The body is no more than a cicada’s shed shell. Lives depend on one another, then return to one kindred whole.

Looking across heaven and earth, I take the body as a temporary lodging—what is there to cling to alone? Cultivate what is hidden and true; cast off clutter; let the mind be deep, clear, and without desire.

Who says those who cultivate the Dao do not know joy, anger, sorrow, and fear? Day and night, they are still stirred by outer things. Yet the heart is broad, beyond the bounds of heaven and earth; breathing in and out flows like an unflickering candle flame.

A thousand years later, bright light still remains; the supreme, wondrous Dao is forever clear and manifest.

Shuhuai (Expressing What Is in the Heart)

I sigh over heaven and earth—Yin and Yang fill each other and move in mutual exchange. The cosmos extends in all directions; within emptiness and stillness, true knowing is clear.

Worldly splendor gathers and scatters like swarms of insects; perverse and violent things surge in rivalry. People argue without end and act against the right Way—how can they taste the joy of Confucius and Yan Hui?

Facing danger hard as frozen ice, be as careful as treading on frost; amid blazing fire, be as alert as handling fuel. Who can grasp the key to how Yin and Yang run? Better for now to follow change and rest in calm detachment.

Underfoot one seems to tread frozen ice and pass through biting frost, which keeps one alert; yet it is also as if one stood amid blazing fire, touching kindling in fear. Who can fully grasp the pivot on which worldly affairs turn? For now, follow simplicity and detachment, and meet whatever comes with calm acceptance.

The way of utmost sincerity reaches through to the beginning of all things; how deep and subtle it is within. The autumn sky is clear, lucid as an abyss; after rain the moonlight is pure, lighting secluded valleys.

Across a thousand years, who has truly matched my spirit? Better to settle into quiet and hold fast to a mind of emptiness, stillness, and simplicity.

Cold and heat alternate without pause; the seasons keep shifting. Present and past take turns in succession. Heaven and earth move with vigor and never rest; once the round heaven and square earth are fixed, the order of high and low is established.

Are rain and dew not also a kind of teaching? Wind and thunder too share in the growth and change of the ten thousand things. The highest principle holds the subtle mechanism of creation; it cuts and molds the myriad beings until they take shape.

How vast is the realm of utmost sincerity and luminous clarity! One should follow and nurture it so that pure virtue ever accumulates. To settle one’s nature and life, establish the root here; by following exemplary norms and standards, one has something to rely on.

Why should the work of refining virtue stray from the right path, so that faults and flaws cannot be discerned, tempered, and removed? The noble conduct praised in the “Qi Ao” ode now survives only as a sparse, lonely echo; the wondrous work of creation likewise moves one only to sigh.

Confucius and Mozi never shared the same Way; Mencius and Xunzi differed in doctrine and in what they achieved. Some wandered between Wei and Lu in pursuit of the Way—yet in the end, who truly followed the kingly Way? Chunyu Kun’s will did not bend; the “hard and white” debate was taken up by Gongsun Long. Qi’s hymns and drums sounded sharp and loud; Yang Xiong’s Ju Qin Mei Xin too provokes deep reflection.

The dark sayings of Laozi, Zhuangzi, and those like them made the aim of fasting and quiet cultivation obscure; stories of Master Yin and the seagull both point toward seeking inner central harmony. Zhuangzi and Liezi were famed for strange, bold rhetoric; writings such as “Pian Mu” exalt empty talk.

When the Zhou dynasty declined, every school rushed to put forth books and doctrines; if one endlessly defended absurd theories, when would it ever end? If one tries to bend with the times yet never gains what is useful, so-called broad-mindedness also collapses into emptiness.

The subtle principle of the utmost Way runs through the three powers of Heaven, Earth, and Humanity; human rites, righteousness, and institutions express the ruler’s inmost heart. Benevolence and righteousness are rooted in human nature—how could one’s endowed endowment be blinded?

Take reverence as the mainstay so the mind stays unified; in guarding oneself, one must be careful. The principle of central harmony governs the norms of things; nurturing and transforming the ten thousand things is its wondrous function. Study and revere the ancient sages, tracing the path of seeking the Way; where the human heart is subtle and hard to fathom, nothing avails but sincere respect and steadfast practice. Pay no heed to those who boast and flatter, and do not drift with the crowd away from the spirit handed down by the Neo-Conf Confucian masters of Lianxi and the Luoyang tradition.

Inwardly still, steadfast, and pure, with lofty admiration in the heart—what perverse path is there to follow? Better to delight in fish and birds at peace, keeping company with mountain springs and stone groves.

The ancient, remote music of primordial times is barely heard; in silent stillness one seems to return to the age of Fuxi and Shennong.

A mind of emptiness, stillness, clarity, and transparency aligns with the pivot of Heaven and Earth and subtly enters the lofty, turning, changing course of the Way. Yang fire (the “timing of the fire” in neidan, symbolizing the movement of yang qi) fills to the true degree of heat; yin cold dissolves like a cold spring thawing.

Huangzhong qi (the central, transforming primordial qi) drives the wheel of circulation—in each inhalation and exhalation, breath courses through the whole body. Qiongye (the “jade fluid” in practice, naming the liquid born from refined essence) nurtures the spiritual root; yuhua (clear, moist essence) shines in the zhitan (the “fungus field,” a image for the inner ground where life-force flourishes in cultivation).

Spiritual transformation cannot be measured in words alone; it must be grasped from signs that are deep and vast. Once the mysterious secret of life is understood, one rides the wind to summon Gu Juan (a legendary immortal).

Taihe qi (harmonious, undivided primordial qi) gathers and holds; riding it, one can soar aloft.

Sit in stillness and forget the self, settling the breath as calmly as a swallow. People in the world rush about, their spirits pulled and disturbed. Whoever understands how life truly flows can see through xingming (nature and life) and the movements of heart and intent.

Pursuing and upholding the Way of life is not like cleaving an ox by skill alone; rites of sacrifice and ornament follow what is naturally so. When the wind rises, Gu Juan is summoned. Taihe qi gathers and holds; riding it, one can soar aloft.

Sit in stillness, forget the self, and settle the breath; the world’s hurry and noise disturb the mind. Whoever understands how life truly flows can see through xingming and heart and intent. Pursuing and upholding the Way of life is not mere technique; rites of sacrifice and ornament truly follow the natural.

Misfortune and blessing depend on each other; the logic of life and death should be understood for oneself.

A zhuiyou (a useless growth, something superfluous) should finally be cut away; what is there to trust in the cunning discernment of a civet cat? Lord Shen finally changed course, while Yuan Gu held to his path to the end. Chao Fu and Xu You (recluses famed for refusing office) felt themselves lesser before the truly lofty; Shu Shi was called a worthy minister. Singing loudly “Cai Ling,” why should one meet the trouble of Yingning again? Even if one walks like a lame tortoise, there is no need to start at favor and disgrace.

Stealing a name is as base as the Tian and Shi clans; brewing and hoarding such fame—what is there to mourn? Qin du (gifts of birds and calves) are virtue in oneself; the mengjiu bird is not harmed because it is “of the same kind.” Kongzi returned at Ming Du; Duke Yu of Yu left at Zhi Qi. Xi Fu was no mere cattail; Sai Shu had qilin and li horses in name only. Stand out in self-cultivation and draw the distant pure wind; after a thousand years, beauty still lies in returning to the one great Dao. Alas—why did Wei Zhuangzi grieve alone? Gathering feng and walking on, singing as he went, he would dwell long in mountain forests.

Sai Shu had qilin and li horses in name only. Stand out in self-cultivation and draw the distant pure wind; after a thousand years, beauty still lies in returning to the one great Dao. Alas—why did Wei Zhuangzi grieve alone? Gathering feng and walking on, singing as he went, he would dwell long in mountain forests.

Heaven and Earth are themselves formed things; yin and yang govern tundun (the first stirrings of change, not yet clear). The ten thousand things run in confusion, as if blown by wind each shifting on its own. Grasp the pivot, open the channel of their movement—when things meet by chance, how can all be known?

Dregs and weeds—sinking in them is truly absurd; colts racing—how can that be the same as the great Dao? Plain integrity valued in steadfastness, virtue held within without display, shows fitting pattern. Yet one lacks the ease of living by the plow; lotus-like purity, slow and clean, broad and tolerant. Xian Zhang declined fish, chariots, and horses; Chen You cut off the enjoyment of mutton.

Heaven and Earth are merely formed vessels; yin and yang preside over tundun. The myriad things move in disarray, as if each were altered by a gust of wind. To grasp the hub and bore through the principle of their operation—when things meet by chance, how can one know it all?

Dregs and weeds—immersion in them is truly mistaken; horses racing in rivalry—how can that equal the great Dao? Plain, steadfast integrity is precious; virtue held inward without ostentation reveals fitting refinement. Yet one lacks the ease of living by tilling the soil; purity like the lotus, gentle and clean, generous and accommodating. Xian Zhang declined fish, carriages, and horses; Chen You renounced the pleasure of mutton.

When a foot-long toad turned greenish yellow, it made me think that whether one is slandered or praised, one ought to stay on guard. The Bo Zhou ode of Wei stirs deep feeling: the river rushes away—how swiftly it goes.

Lin Lei kept silent, plucking orchids in a secluded thicket, and sang aloud.

Obstructing Antiquity

The morning sun rises in the east; faint moonlight slips over the western ridge. The river surges in haste; nearby the water roars, and flocks of birds answer one another in cry.

Spring and summer each have their own weather; cold and warmth naturally take turns. I admire one far off and lofty in character, hoping to entrust myself to him for long; his heart is mild, his quality like orchid.

He stands far apart from the world; I can only vainly hear a voice jade-clear and fine. One so pure and good—why should he still sing in reply with you? Moved, he hands me his hairpin.

Clouds veil the sunlight; a clear breeze enters the bed curtains. Swallows on the beam still nest in the old eaves; wild geese by the water beat their wings and soar.

Trees south of the courtyard grow thick with leaves; the river races eastward. Thorns block the path; I linger and cannot go—where, after all, should I turn?

I climb that high hill; sedge grass flourishes everywhere. Go, go—say no more; the dust of the world stains the robe all too easily.

Along the distant road to the eastern hills I wind my way, turning through northwest orchid thickets. Where is the one who wears the orchid bound? At dusk a fierce wind blows, cold breath on cold breath.

Yin vapor congeals; even the white sun turns chill; frost and dew lie everywhere, and the road ahead grows harder. Alas for this fragrant nature—it may well be fouled by filth.

The spring’s flow wails thin and keen; dark cicadas cry in the empty hills. I would pick the hidden ling herb—yet it is in vain; what use in waiting—can one be at peace alone? Orchid—where is the wearer bound? At dusk the fierce wind blows cold.

Yin vapor congeals; even the white sun turns chill; frost and dew lie everywhere, and the road ahead grows harder. Alas for this fragrant nature—it may well be fouled by filth.

The spring’s flow wails thin and keen; dark cicadas cry in the empty hills. I would pick the hidden ling herb—yet it is in vain; what use in waiting—can one be at peace alone?

The eastern hills rise steep yet level; the stream runs swift, deep beyond measure. Birds beat their wings and climb; layered clouds mass into gloom.

In spring a hundred flowers flourish; a mournful wind stirs the sun-facing grove. Flourish and decay pass like morning and evening—brief; in old age one grieves in vain, and nothing avails.

Can wealth and rank be sought at will? I would rather keep poverty in peace, and take shame at a thousand in gold. Purple fungus on Mount Shang flourishes at its peak—what, in the end, did Master Yuan and Master Qi of the orchard intend?

I drive my carriage out the western gate; beyond the city, many fragrant trees. Mist dampens the robe; dense shade covers the courtyard.

On cold days the setting sun drops beside the long river; the road south stretches on and on. I think of how long I have been away from home, living alone—walking on, I turn to look back again and again.

A human life lasts barely a hundred years; how often can one know worry and fear? The bright moon shines on the high hill; only four or five stars scatter in the sky.

Gazing into the distance with melancholy—where can I still go? The autumn wind blows until evening, and the scene turns bleak once more.

Winter has come; the cold draws nearer. The north wind sweeps the poplar grove; fallen leaves hiss like autumn. Evening light falls through the western window.

Before I know it the night is not yet half gone, yet the starlight is already bright and dense. I feed the horses and cross the hard ice; the far traveler cannot help sighing at the hard road. Where can I still go? The autumn wind blows until evening, and the scene turns bleak once more.

Winter has come; the cold draws nearer. The north wind sweeps the poplar grove; fallen leaves hiss like autumn. Evening light falls through the western window.

Before I know it the night is not yet half gone, yet the starlight is already bright and dense. I feed the horses and cross the hard ice; the far traveler cannot help sighing at the hard road.

I recall the wishes of my whole life; experience after experience follows, and words truly fail. The zither strings draw out music fine as ice-silk; the lingering tones drift up to the clouds.

I lift my gaze and brooding thoughts stretch across a thousand ages; the lamp flame turns and sways—again the year reaches cold season.

To the northeast stands a fine tree; at dusk the breeze carries chill. Endless rain makes the road muddier; clouds still drift and scatter in the sky.

The setting sun sinks toward the western ridge; its afterglow fills the quiet room. White dew covers the steps; the Milky Way now hangs low, now rises high.

I throw on my robe and pace the room: why is there always so much pain in the heart? I only fear that resolve and desire may not be fulfilled—and in a blink the hair in my hand has turned white.

Musing on Wandering as an Immortal

On the vast northern mountains lingzhi grows; on the high ridges trees flourish. A fragrant mat woven of flowers stays bright morning and evening; branches and leaves grow lush of themselves.

I long to wander the heavens wearing feather ornaments and jade pendants, to leave the dusty world and become one lofty and pure. Beyond the green stream I show a transcendent bearing; gazing far, I wash body and mind beside the deep pool.

Where Fuqiu Gong of old built his dwelling, at dusk I give a long whistle and ride the swift wind. With outstanding grace I peer toward the steep immortal isle; I soar at will—branches and leaves still grow thick.

I long to wander the heavens wearing feather ornaments and jade pendants, to leave the dusty world and become one lofty and pure. Beyond the green stream I show a transcendent bearing; gazing far, I wash body and mind beside the deep pool.

Where Fuqiu Gong built his dwelling, at dusk I give a long whistle and ride the swift wind. With outstanding grace I peer toward the steep immortal isle; in the air I roam freely, steering the wheeling wind.

I fly far toward the four quarters of heaven and earth—why need methods like those of Xu Fu or Han Zhong? I sing aloud, honoring the bright and upright way of immortals, and dwell at ease in secluded hiding.

I hear that people chase fame and profit, yet their dwellings are slowly buried by hill dust. What is there to scheme for in a four-horse carriage? Why not return to the lotus hermitage?

Climbing branches to reach a high ridge, leaning on the bank to look down into a clear channel. Lingering among layered peaks, how could one still put on airs of pride and arrogance?

On Mount Kongtong the pillar-scribe (Zhishi—the legendary Laozi who served as Zhou archivist) lives in seclusion; in the garden of Zheng there are also those who rest content. When ambition is fulfilled they soar upward; once beyond the world they are free as fish in deep water.

Dwelling where mist and rosy clouds gather, they give a long cry to the wild and probe the mystery of the universe at its beginning.

Spirit peaks rise ten thousand ren; within them live those who seek immortality. Mist clings to the cliff-gorge summits; clouds veil the springs at their source.

Who can see clearly who dwells in those mountains? Legend says it is Ge Hong—the Eastern Jin Daoist and alchemist. He left traces around the Yi River and Mount Luofu, refining with divine elixirs in pursuit of long life and clear sight.

The carriage returns from the north; the pearl grove awaits the phoenix’s descent. The jade maiden departs and I too shall go, lightly beating my wings in flight.

How could the words of Qu Yuan (style name Lingjun) ever fully express the heart? Gazing upward into the distance—what is one still waiting for?

On “Summoning the Recluse” (in imitation)

Following the mountain path to seek a hermit, passing winding, secluded trails. The dwelling in the woods is no splendid hall—only a corner borrowed from the wild, a nest among mugwort and thorns.

Orchids cover the high slope; their fragrance encircles the place. Distant peaks rise and fall in uneven ranks; nearby, tall groves stand dense and grand.

Day to day they live by tillage and herding; crops stand ripe in the fields and stores grow ample. Why remain bound by corvée and fetters? Steep, hidden valleys are where I can rest at ease.

In the Shang-Luo hills someone hides in garden seclusion, lifting body high on a knoll, lying at ease in waste ground. Long I wander—where should I seek them? I long to sing a song like Jieyu (the Spring and Autumn recluse who warned Confucius in verse).

Rest deep in the woods; sunlight slants through the treetops onto lush blossoms. Below lies a clear pool enough to wash away worldly trouble, as one rinses a dust-grimed cap cord.

In green, deep groves pine and cassia stand firm and pure. Grasses mass together; a cold spring runs bright and alone.

The silken sash and seal on official dress are not for everyone to hold at once; withdrawal to the hills is a life one may choose to bear. Like the basket-bearing old man (he who labored in the wild with a bamboo carrier), walking the wasteland; like Chao Fu and Xu You (legendary ancient recluses), keeping far from turmoil.

Those who attain the Way do not merely wait before the mountain—they ride transformation here, following heaven and earth. Gazing afar in frustration, who shares my intent? Hesitant and turning, I keep only the refined purpose in my heart.

At dawn I go out, wishes still unfulfilled; back in the courtyard I still pace alone. Round and round—who will keep me company? The hermit lies in a humble roofed hut.

At morning I climb the western ridge; at evening I return below the eastern slope. The high ridge stands like a screen; thick trees form a solemn forest.

Amid wind and bamboo, gazing at flowers and grasses beaded with dew, the heart fills with quiet feeling. The woods run deep; the scene is still and clear. Drifting clouds veil ridge upon ridge.

Empty nests rest lightly on the branches; a secluded dwelling takes shelter under a spirit-haunted shade. Knowing my own dullness, I dare not hope for much—I only wish to pause awhile in some lofty, refined retreat.

Chasing profit can never match holding to the right Way; with a sweep of the sleeve you go—yet where can you truly stay?

Shape Addresses Shadow

All things share one source; fullness and lack are nature’s constant way. Heaven and earth too are things of form; their turning and change rely on the interplay of Yin and Yang, firm and yielding.

Heaven’s Way is strong and unceasing; earth’s Way is soft and receptive—yet both never stop moving. How could the qi of supreme harmony be harmed? Life is like an illusion that yet appears; the mind’s clear nature can still discern good from evil.

Poverty and success are empty reckonings. When aims diverge, hearts cannot align. If one only rushes forward and willingly sinks into the mire, drowning in it brings calamity upon oneself.

One should look within and keep the inner light undimmed; true virtue knows no bound. Stay watchful even at night and walk your path with care—once you stray, the consequence is as grim as facing frost and ice.

May these words be engraved on the heart, and through them may I urge myself to do good and hold to what is right.

Shadow Replies to Shape

To lodge in the world is no more than morning dew; what matters in being human is doing all one can so conduct matches what is fitting. Heaven and earth’s changes are like a hidden mechanism whose depths cannot be fathomed—how could anyone fully see how Yin and Yang move?

The ten thousand things stand arrayed; people race and compete, each eager to shine. In dim confusion they sink day by day, stuck in the filth, unable to pull free.

Indulge bias and forget the Way—how can one return to a clear original nature? The sages’ admonitions are weighty; the principles they set forth run deep and fine.

Act as if wading through fields or treading on ice: only with cautious steadfastness can the bright lineage of the Way be carried on. Cultivate the self in sincerity and treat virtue with care, so that a lifetime leaves nothing to sigh over.

All things in the end return to the Great Transformation (the cosmic process by which heaven and earth generate and renew the myriad beings). One should empty the heart and listen quietly, and discern the subtle truth within.

The vigorous Qian Dao (symbolizing the Way of Heaven and inexhaustible creative strength) runs without ceasing; the workings of creation turn in endless cycles. Cultivating oneself and making the heart sincere establishes the root; returning to a state of comprehensive understanding is not really difficult.

Alas, those skilled in disputation have clouded minds, yet they exert themselves over peripheral matters. Trusting in talent and reputation, even the states of Qin and Zhao were apprehensive.

I quietly turn away from flashy fashions, indignation wandering in my heart, only adding long sighs. Why have those broad in learning and grand in vision carried sorrow since ancient times?

I revere the sages of ages past and resolve to follow them; probing the subtle Way, one at last glimpses the vast horizon.

Miscellaneous Poems

At dawn, clouds veil the sun; wind and rain blow from the northern woods. As seasons shift, the scene changes; rows of trees grow thick with shade.

Resting quietly in the courtyard, garden birds call in sweet tones. I revere the ancients and wish to sit beside them in empty, humble stillness.

I admire Yuan Xian’s lofty poverty; Zigong lamented his destitution. In a clear, numinous realm I calmly mirror all things; what is hidden and deep I keep in my heart, ready to bear myself.

Noble intent matches leisurely aspiration; alone I sigh and open a broad heart. Sandals dragging, I chant “Lishang” (lament for a fallen state); my tracks leave the dust, wandering only among hills and streams.

The morning star’s light fades; the full moon shines on graceful trees. All night awake—clouds thin; frost covers the chrysanthemum clusters.

Along the water, geese cry and pass; reeds on the islet hide in dense green. The one I long for is far across autumn waters; a fair one’s trace is lost beyond steep valleys.

Wang Ba’s example is long gone; Yuan An’s pure conduct commands respect. At year’s end I would follow them, yet having readied the carriage, I still hesitate.

Sunlight bends and stretches; in a blink it reaches deep into the woods.

Morning and evening the weather shifts, yet the grove keeps its quiet breath. Blossoms fall in the setting sun; by evening, dragonflies hum.

Early summer heat is still mild; fragrant grasses tangle along the pool. When weary, I walk in pale moonlight; white dew settles, the ground cold and clear.

In leisure I admire Zhou Xie; sitting at ease I think of Guan Ning. Looking out, I sigh at the world’s emptiness; whether one rises or withdraws depends on oneself at last.

My heart turns to hills, waters, and fields, in harmony with recluses; I slip off my shoes and cut the tie to fame and gain in the dusty world.

In early summer the north wind is still cold; summer heat has not fully arrived. Thick leaves spread like clouds; at dawn crows clamor in answer to one another.

Fragrant flowers cover the grass; roadside greens grow tender. After sunset I gladly find a place to rest; pushing through brambles, I hide on a high hill.

Life is like a white colt flashing through a crack—gone in an instant. Attachments and desires tangle on without end. People are like monkeys fixated on taro right before their eyes; if you can set your own gain and loss aside, there is nothing left to blame.

To grasp the Dao is like savoring fine wine—why fret over what may happen a hundred generations from now?

I have no wish to step into worldly affairs; the ways of the world are not what I know. The body is hollow, like dew at dawn; I spread joy before my eyes and let it stay close.

Looking over heaven and earth, the ten thousand things are only gathering and scattering. People are like monkeys fixated on taro before their eyes; if you can set your own gain and loss aside, there is nothing left to blame.

To grasp the Dao is like savoring fine wine—why fret over what may happen a hundred generations from now?

I have no wish to step into worldly affairs; the ways of the world are not what I know. The body is hollow, like dew at dawn; I spread joy before my eyes and let it stay close.

Looking over heaven and earth, the ten thousand things are only gathering and scattering. Only when you are at ease in poverty do you see that wealth and rank bring their own weariness; only when you keep to lowliness do you forget the dangers that ride with high position.

Ban Biao, the Eastern Han historian, always loved antiquity; Zhou Dang, the Eastern Han recluse, was pure in conduct and rare in aspiration. He went with harmonious qi and put aside strife and sharp edges; fortune and misfortune, gain and loss—none of it weighed on his heart.

There is no one in the world like Qian Lou, the hermit who guarded poverty—so who is there to hear these words?

Winter’s course never stops; over the four wilds, dark clouds stack layer on layer. At day’s end, drifting clouds race; a mournful wind sounds through sparse woods.

Crows roost on old branches; spring-longing turns to a faint, hidden song. The carriage is ready, yet I do not know which old road to take; I would spread my wings and fly, but seldom hear a companion’s answering call.

From afar I send my intent, seeking a hidden, subtle summons; at ease I wander far, leaving off worldly caps and ties. Time flashes like lightning—how can I match a heart that is lofty and steadfast?

After looking long into the distance, I rest on a sunny ridge; soaring alone, my form fades among steep, far peaks. I watch the changes of the ten thousand things broadly—what under heaven could hold my breast?

Morning air suddenly turns mild and clear; heaven and earth are bright, without a veil. I look to the four quarters; the ten thousand things break into new growth.

Sweet rain falls at the eaves; spring sunlight gently nourishes all. Morning wind stirs the high forest; the long river rolls on in flood.

I pillow myself on books, my mind empty and still, following the intent of the ancients. Worldly bonds make hurried rushing stop; the grime of emotion stills blazing vexation.

Why accept Pang Meng’s invitation? Why throw myself into the path Xue Fang chose? I sigh for those who chase only the branches—only the wide, high sky mirrors the signs of the Dao.

Autumn Mood

A fierce wind shakes the high trees; sadly I know autumn has come. In morning light, rivers and valleys look changed; at dusk, drifting clouds fill the sky.

The steady rain has briefly lifted the summer heat; among dense shade the cicadas cry in urgent bursts. I stand for a long while, sighing at the turn of the seasons, then open my robe and sink into solitary reflection.

Human life is brief—like the flicker of a gnat in flight or the faint sound of a breath. I mourn Yin Sheng’s fate and think of Hong Yao’s companionship. I would hide myself winding among the trees, yet I still tremble and can rarely know a moment’s peace. People grasp at tiny gains and scramble for bait on the hook, restless and confused—where can freedom be found?

The Sage Confucius once wished to speak no more; who could unravel my cares for me?

Bitter rain swells the cold standing water; all night the rain beats on my “sorrow terrace.” In the courtyard, insect cries wound the heart; by wild waters, mist rises thick. Grass and trees turn more sere and fallen; I press my chest and sigh as worry layers upon worry. I light a lamp, rise, and touch the zither, tuning the strings—yet I cannot bring forth a whole tune.

The clear teaching of the Yellow Emperor and Tang Yao lies far in the past; indignation at an unjust age can only lodge in the heart. Heavy clouds, rain pouring at will—the water altar shows and hides as sky light shifts. Until dawn I lie awake, vain regret and dread welling up. Long have I been sunk in hardship; hemmed in, where could I journey far?

Looking out, the ten thousand affairs seem to pass in a single glance; for now I use this to ease what weighs on my mind.

Clouds gather and scatter; day by day autumn grows austere. Frost and dew turn chill; crickets chirp in the cold night. Morning mist veils the tall woods; birds fold their wings and rest on quiet marshes. Bleakness wraps the scene; stirred by what I see, grief rises.

Worldly people vie for advantage; the way of the ancient sages few still keep. A gloomy wind blocks the road; they run and chase, caught in thorny tangles. Song Yu once grieved at the autumn wind—I look up to the steadfast virtue of the worthy; I would rather drink coarse wine and gather fallen blossoms, outstripping the crowd in pursuit of fine conduct.

Orchids bloom in profusion; in the withered grove chrysanthemums just show white. For now I follow a plain, leisurely life—yet who will bear for me the blame the times impose?

The red sun washes away summer heat; autumn’s command turns clear and pure. At dawn wind races through the woods; the courtyard grass is capped with white dew.

In late autumn the leaves fall; faint sunlight spreads across the land, and the katydid chirps beside the house. Water flows gently across the plain, and water birds skim along the shore.

I live in seclusion here and speak of the deep-autumn scene. The turning of the four seasons never pauses—when would they linger for anyone? Under the eaves, thoughts of ages past stir; the mind lifts high and gazes into the distance.

This only makes me vainly feel what Xie Huilian felt—it is not truly that I admire Pan Anren. I tighten my sash, climb into a high carriage, and mean to rinse my cap-strings and go down to the riverbank.

There is joy in hiding among hills, fields, and woods; looking up at heaven and earth, one also relies on the mirror of quiet mountains and forests. I gaze sadly at the traces left by woodcutters gathering fuel, and sing aloud on the desolate road.

I leave worldly affairs and align myself with the mountains and forests, nurturing body and mind here and clearing away distracting thoughts. Clouds hang heavy and the air turns stern; the Han River rises, and pooled water spreads from morning on.

Fine trees sway in the wind; hidden orchids still put out fragrant new shoots. Days lived alone are indeed quiet and plain—yet why is the valley so bleak?

Guo Tai is already gone, and Fei Yi long since left the dust of the world. Worldly fashions burn hot; crafty men show their horns, and worry and inner vexation arise.

If one did not rest in mountain ridges and ravines, how could one keep far from clamor? Rest in peace and let cold and heat pass; temper the body and wait for dawn.

Clear spring water is enough to clarify the heart; after washing the spirit, the mind opens and rises above. Sing “Valley Wind” to the full, and drive the carriage in homage to Fu Xi and Shen Nong.

Matching Su Su’an’s “Lodging My Feelings”

Body and existence are all empty and in flux; only the firm yang qi stands unshaken. Heaven and earth unite strength and yielding, and the utmost principle fills the heart—yet remains hard to see clearly.

Long I have not roamed mountains, lakes, and marshes; now spring deepens and fragrant grass grows long. Longing for an old friend stretches on without end; across a thousand years, what people seek is essentially the same.

Shake off worldly turmoil and look up to recluses like Chao Fu and Xu You. Push aside brambles and live a hidden, quiet life; as long as the Way is in the heart, who can say I am wrong?

Life in the valley has its own clear spacious charm; I lie at ease among the trees. In still seclusion I guard a deep, quiet intent; through a thousand years, what is cherished is always this single original mind.

Matching Su Su’an’s “Miscellaneous Poems”

Unending rain dims late spring; hidden birds call in the thick trees. Petals fall in the evening wind, and the cold stream slowly recedes.

Seasons rush past like swift water; drifting clouds and water birds pass far away. Watch in stillness and you see that the ten thousand things never cease changing—form and appearance are always renewing and perishing.

In dark quiet, keep the inner mind single; from morning to night, guard thought. I would trace the way of the ancients, yet feel there is nothing more to say; cut away the excess seedlings and make room for what remains.

Upright pine trunks endure bitter cold—how could pine and cypress wither and fade? Cultivating character should begin early, just as one clears weeds and foul undergrowth in good time.

Look with clear insight and you can grasp how all things change; form and color, too, are always passing from old to new.

Gather the spirit inward and guard integrity day and night. If you wish to carry forward the ancients’ teaching, it is best to speak little; when you remove weeds, leave room for the grain to grow.

Upright pine trunks endure bitter cold—how could pine and cypress wither and fade? Cultivate virtue while you are still young, clearing weeds, brambles, and filth.

Penetrate the transformations of ten thousand ages, and you will see that bright virtue (mingde—luminous, upright conduct) is not something reached by outward acts alone.

A faint moon rises from the eastern islet; the Milky Way lightly veils sparse stars. Dew gathers on the shrubs; among withered grasses, birds wake and cry at dawn.

Open the heart and sit alone through the long night, touching past and present with deep feeling. Ten thousand affairs rot away like dust—why weary the spirit over birth and death?

Sorrow and fear are sometimes like a great dream; the years simply slip by. Thinking on this, what is there to sigh over? A lifetime of a hundred years is spent between drunkenness and waking.

The nature of all things holds principle within; bodies entrusted to the world differ in sagacity and folly. Benefit and harm often intertwine—those who lose themselves in them and die for them are not the wise.

The sage penetrates the De (Virtue/Power) given by nature and understands that in life’s changes there is flourish and there is decline. The ranking of noble wealth as precious and base poverty as shameful was not in the heart’s first endowment; the nature each receives was originally equal as one.

I cast off the bonds of bodily toil and dwell in a humble thatched hut, content with plain simplicity.

Zhuangzi (Warring States thinker) grasped that the ten thousand things should each rest in its own nature and follow what is natural, and so set aside vain distinctions and dwelt at ease. Liezi (Daoist thinker) spoke of fate and natural auspice, rising above the currents of the world.

They used parables to warn later generations, yet seldom sought to govern the age. Achievement they left to dust; personal fame they no longer pursued.

Huizi (Warring States “School of Names” thinker), from the story of the great gourd, took a lesson and thereafter no longer clung to worldly affairs.

The bright mirror shows beauty and ugliness, yet the mirror’s fine light itself does not change with what it reflects. Still water can mirror a person’s brows and eyes—whether one is old or young is not decided by outward appearance.

Ambiguity and sharpness (two temperaments in meeting the world), and every craft, each has its limit; even skill at dragon-slaying may not serve in practical life. Thinking of the talented and virtuous through a thousand years, they still need a good teacher to polish and temper them.

“Matching Rhymes with Su Su’an: Singing My Feelings”

All things born share one common root; branch and root ought to hold together. Children are born with bright awareness—none fails to know kin they should love.

The nature people receive originally holds constant Dao and goodness within; the difference between light and dark is like day and night. The forebears’ instruction can lift deep obscurity; indulgence in play and slack neglect discard single-minded diligence.

When one reaches the state of central harmony and harmonizing all things, rich flavors and delicacies are no longer worth cherishing. Virtue must be practiced in one’s own person; sound plans too must be carried out with sincere intent upon oneself.

Thinking of this, I often sigh that time flows away like river water rushing onward, like the moon passing through drifting clouds.

The quiet courtyard is bathed in morning light, warm and mild, bringing ease and joy. Sparse bamboo rustles in a light breeze; on the overgrown moss, few footprints appear.

Life in seclusion is calm and comfortable; worldly affairs seldom press upon one. When custom is shallow, to drift only with the current damages the root—how then can growth be nourished?

The mood of reckless indulgence grows daily more sticky and fierce; at this thought the heart feels deep alarm. Faced with excessive heat and overflowing desire, one must apply different remedies; concentrating the spirit and guarding the Dao is the highest virtue.

Scriptures and admonitions have left us a path to follow; restraining oneself within and reducing desire in turn bring benefit. Be cautious—urge yourself to keep your first resolve, and from morning to night examine your conduct.

On the Painting of the Stone Chamber at Kongtong

Nüwa, the ancient mythic creatrix who smelted stone to mend heaven, and the old man of Ji who transformed into spirit-stone—the root of heaven and earth lies at Kongtong Mountain. Who could carve and build this jade-like immortal dwelling within it?

Kongtong has been a famous peak since antiquity; in the texts and lore of the Yellow Emperor it is famed for mystery. Its halls are spacious, as if one could roam heaven and earth; people embrace the true Dao and look up to the traces of ancient immortals.

It suits those who cultivate quiet and clarity far from the dust, lodging in the clear, empty realm between heaven and earth. Dew-nourished fungi aid long life; frost-hardened pines and cypresses may be gathered and taken by those who refine themselves.

Who could carve and build this jade-like immortal dwelling?

Kongtong has been a famous peak since antiquity; in the texts and lore of the Yellow Emperor it is famed for mystery. Its halls are spacious, as if one could roam heaven and earth; people embrace the true Dao and look up to the traces of ancient immortals.

It suits those who cultivate quiet and clarity far from the dust, lodging in the clear, empty realm between heaven and earth. Dew-nourished fungi aid long life; frost-hardened pines and cypresses may be gathered and taken by those who refine themselves.

They seek efficacious talismans and precious jade scriptures, and the golden elixir needed to compound the great medicine; they love the clear moonlight and probe principles deep and abstruse.

Yang Jiang dreamed of streams and shore; resting briefly at the Shao pavilion, it was as if returning birds had come to roost. Without the immortal in the gourd—he of legend who dwells in the gourd’s inner paradise—how could one in a single breath behold the dark-yellow mystery of heaven and earth?

Clouds enshroud the hollow immortal dwelling; at night moonlight pours like golden waves. In the dim valley, jade-like plants are fair; swift water bends and rushes down.

The spirit roams the boundless space between heaven and earth, sweeping onward to the offshore peaks Fangzhang and Yingzhou. One bows to Lord Guangcheng, clears the mind, and guards the root of the profound Dao.

—End of Xianquan Ji, juan 8—

Xianquan Ji, juan 9

Composed by Celestial Master Zhang Yuchu of Qishan Wuwei

Five-character ancient-style poetry

Inscription for the Hall of Pure Clarity

Heaven and earth nurture the myriad things; each thing possesses a root of pure unity. The supreme Way holds subtle principle within it—empty, still, and clear, its radiance ever present and never ceasing.

The human heart-mind is originally bright and good, yet it is often clouded by tangled desires; people vie with one another and their thoughts knot together. The Lord knows the root of humaneness and virtue, and understands how vital it is to set the foundation straight and keep one’s conduct in order.

Books and historical records fill the seats beside him; the studio windows open onto the trees. The lofty building is brightly painted; flowers and trees flourish, and fragrance spreads everywhere.

I am fortunate to keep company with a worthy of lofty virtue, studying the classics and reading texts together. As a kinsman of the imperial house who also holds a weighty post in the frontier command, he loyally serves the state and keeps the realm peaceful and stable. His character is as clear and upright as autumn frost, as pure as a deep pool, and like the cold moon shining over river and stream—lucid and transcendent.

His mind is broad; he does not let the filth of the world fill his eyes, nor does he treat flashy honor and favor as things to grasp—they only dull and block the spirit. Like the kun and peng soaring to the vast celestial pool, wings spread wide, free from constraint, he uses rank and title to display the merit of generations; his fame is lofty and inspires reverence. May the state and the ancestral temple long flourish, and for a thousand years remain bright and secure.

Inscription for the Studio of Quiet Learning

In the Great Undifferentiated (Taiyi), the first glimmer of light appears; the movement of yin and yang has had no beginning since antiquity. Empty, still, and numinous—it cannot be fathomed; in motion and in rest alike, the supreme Way runs through all.

The myriad things share one source; only later do they divide, and seldom is there a boundary that can be clearly traced. Fuxi drew the trigrams and opened the way of human culture; the wise established norms and standards for the world.

The sage’s learning takes stillness as its root. Outwardly things may seem hidden, yet inner awakening rises from this. The Way of Heaven and the human heart are hard to align fully; heavenly principle and selfish desire often struggle against each other. Chasing outwardly makes one rush and scramble; when the inner mind goes awry, it is like a drawn bow shooting fast—hard to restrain. Once the clear, deep, quiet mind is disturbed, the root and guiding thread are obscured as well.

With a heart of honesty and depth, returning to the right path is like turning the chariot around; a heart that had been galloping in alarm can suddenly grow calm. When the inner mind is clear and firm, it is like autumn water reflecting the frosty moon—transparent and bright.

My friend, a scion of an old Yangzhou clan, is warm, steady, and sincere, resolved to follow the path of the ancient sages. He studies learning that benefits self-cultivation and good governance, probes the root of heaven-and-earth’s nurturing work, and savors the deep, subtle purport of the Way. In poetry he aspires to the craft of Bao Zhao and Xie Lingyun; in conduct he looks up to the practice of the sage-teachers of Guanzhong and Minzhong in the tradition of principle-learning. He nurtures virtue and waits for settled times; when the moment comes to deploy his talent and build achievement, may he win praise and recognition.

Surveying the shallow customs of the world, people are upside down and confused—when will it ever end? In seeking learning, diligence without cease matters most; with a mind of reverent caution, settle body and heart.

On the Hall of Cultivating Self-Examination

The spirit of the heart governs the five senses; the four limbs are bound by the balancing force of yin and yang. The highest principle lies within the square inch of the heart; Heaven and humanity are thereby united as one. Following the times, one nourishes virtue; when the world is harmonious and virtue shines forth, praise follows.

If one sinks into flattery and cleverness, thought grows chaotic; when desire runs wild, hearts obscure one another. Wayward conduct often begins in what is hidden—how can danger be stopped in the mind alone? The spirit darkens and sinks as if into an abyss; turmoil blazes like fire. The classics of ancient sages preserve clear admonitions; the Lianxi and Luoyang traditions (Song Neo-Confucian lineages) have also expounded profound doctrine.

Being sincere and upright and returning to the true heart is not beyond reach; in turning inward, even the smallest matters must not be overlooked. Holding the heart firm depends on reverent caution—like driving a galloping horse, one must grasp the six reins steadily. Whether in movement or stillness, measure must be kept; why wait for deliberate reminders before guarding oneself?

Talented scholars along the Xiang River have long studied the Huang–Qi tradition (classical Chinese medicine). They reject shallow views and follow the teaching of Confucian sages, holding firm to lofty resolve. Through devoted cultivation, conduct goes smoothly; in self-examination they always keep watch. At night they still rouse themselves, as if treading on thin ice—only then does the light of virtue grow daily brighter. They work hard at the art of nourishing virtue, advancing day by day without end.

To practice benevolence is to extend benefit widely; can the reward of good deeds long fail to come? When the heart is still, communion with the subtle workings of things is hard to fathom—yet those who crave rank flesh and chase private desire contend with one another in arrogance and perversity. May this admonish the shallow, that they may sober themselves in awe.

At night they still rouse themselves, as if treading on thin ice—the light of virtue grows daily brighter. They work hard at nourishing virtue, advancing without end. To practice benevolence is to extend benefit widely; can the reward of good deeds long fail to come? When the heart is still, the subtle is hard to fathom, while those greedy for private gain struggle in arrogance. May this admonish the shallow with clear teaching, urging them to rouse themselves in vigilance.

On the Hall of Continuing the Ancestral Aim

Heaven and earth never cease in their motion; the Way’s principle is complete in the Six Classics (the six Confucian classics). The noble person inherits the aim of those before, and with broad vision observes the fulfillment of the enterprise.

Heaven and earth bring forth essence and spirit; even the earthworm partakes of the numinous breath of mountains and rivers. Zhuo Wengao of Zhe Commandery came from generations of official caps and sashes—a household of renown. He walked tall in the world of letters and made his name on the path of sages. The family precepts left by Wenjie flourished; through hardship he gladly welcomed the heir who would carry on the line. One who had lived in seclusion rose up, fame reaching the court; the worthy were recommended, virtue displayed, and the ruler’s approval obtained.

Wang Jun inscribed a splendid plaque; what is most precious is loyalty and steadfast integrity. He refined his conduct through diligent study and nourished virtue through a clear and tranquil heart.

When virtue accumulates within, fine talent shines forth; gorgeous phrasing appears in abundance, like jade radiating light. He looked up to the example of past worthies and made his ancestors’ achievements visible; he compiled classics and carried on the cultural line, so that a good name would long endure.

Worthies of old had reputations firm as metal and stone; after a thousand years, they still return us to sincerity and clear understanding.

On the Painting “Yellow Thatched Hermitage”

The great earth is settled and weighty; the myriad things arise in depth and mystery. The subtle Dao hides a nature of utmost harmony; Yin-Yang qi holds vast and full power.

Famous mountains embrace the hub of heaven and earth’s turning; gazing far, their spirit rises above seas and peaks. One qi turns at the round center; the Three Flowers (Jing, Qi, and Shen condensed and refined) gestate among mountains and rivers.

Outwardly he can command spirits; inwardly he firmly holds wind and thunder. With a yellow-thatched hermitage as his dwelling, he alone keeps his integrity, walking in the valley of cinnabar clouds.

In former times he relieved people in drought; the river surged as if whales and crocodiles were rousing. Rare flowers in the cave lay hidden and lofty; successors came one after another, their talent and virtue outstanding.

Fine repute spread across the divine land; dark robes matched a majestic bearing. Again he viewed the portrait of Huzi (an ancient Daoist master) and painted with his brush, just matching that depth and plain authenticity.

He was deep and silent, utterly still; a high terrace hung in the air, vast and open.

On the Painting “South Mountain Frost in Seclusion”

The highest Dao keeps far from disorder and obstruction; advance, retreat, tension, and ease need no prior scheming. Yuchuan’s heart looked upward in lofty admiration, as if lodging in a quiet mountain grove and pool.

Misty forest hills received sweet rain; wind and spring echoed among high knolls. A subtle bearing shone like a patterned leopard; he hid on the fine southern foothills.

In quiet detachment, affection showed like mandarin ducks; the Jiang and Han waters flowed faintly in the distance. At ease in this rich landscape, why cling to clever plots?

Talents like Yiyan and Lü Shang do not appear every generation; they hold their gifts in reserve until sought and employed. Zhuangzi knew well how to avoid calamity; here appears a beautiful realm of hidden cultivation.

Self-Composed on the Double Ninth, Climbing Qiaopo

Morning light scattered thin clouds; at daybreak I entered a deep valley. At last I left the dusty world and settled in mountain woods and gardens—how cramped the bonds of worldly nets feel.

Peaks rise layer on layer, jade-pure; a lone spring runs with a sound like chiming stone. A humble gate leans on a high hill; empty windows face rippling bamboo shadows.

Scenes shift quickly with the flowing water; I sigh that human toil is truly like travel in bonds. The noble person should choose carefully when to serve and when to withdraw.

The turning of the seasons and the signs of nature make one feel how swiftly time rushes by; those who toil all their lives are indeed like people bound and confined. The noble person is cautious in advancing and retreating—why treat gain and loss as glory or shame?

Praising cleverness and scrambling for fame and profit often leads into danger; the sincere and open-hearted feel ashamed of flattery and hidden scheming. Hold fast to inner uprightness, rest content with Heaven’s allotments, and even in abundance know how to be satisfied.

I sadly recall the recluses of Jishan and the Ying River—the Jiying tradition of figures like Xu You. They cast aside the dipper; did they ever truly grasp for anything? They slipped off wooden clogs, stroked tall pines, raised fine wine, and faced clusters of chrysanthemums.

Autumn flowers still blaze bright at dusk; for now I let them delight my eyes and lift my mood. I give a long cry and send my spirit far into empty, hidden depths; those who truly understand the world take drifting with the crowd as shame.

I lift my gaze proudly to the Milky Way, my heart set on lofty hopes—where would I find leisure to chase profit and rank? Dwelling in quiet emptiness, I no longer feel that eminence is precious; following nature, why hesitate at all?

On Farming

With my companions I work side by side in the southern fields; what we plant grows fuller day by day. Sowing has its proper season; among those I know, some are old friends and some new.

Mountain woods and open country hold much fertile ground; in spring-fed valleys one can still seek out water sources. Weeding and sowing are already exhausting; spinning and weaving keep one busy from daylight deep into the night.

I take as models the skilled farmers of Zheng and Yi, and revere the Zhou kings who honored agriculture. My ordinary aims rarely match the ways of the world, so I keep far from its clamor and lodge among cliffs and crags.

I carry a load yet still read my own books—what fault is there in such a life toward others? In poverty there is its own contentment; that is the constant way. What Zhuangzi calls zai you—“keeping all in its place”—means yielding to nature and dwelling in tolerant ease.

Returning from market I am often late; rising in the hills I am always early. Autumn yields to winter and frost and wind strengthen—how could the wax and wane of all things last forever?

Leaves fall away and cold branches stand still; after the harvest even straw and stalks have their use. To farm with one’s own hands—even sages have held this right; does that mean one fails to understand the way to govern?

The fates of figures like Pang Juan and Ge Hong differ widely; in hardship or success, who can preserve themselves forever? Thinking of how the ancients spoke of worldly affairs, I sigh with feeling; turning back to myself, my thoughts grow only deeper and more secluded.

I am ashamed that weariness and slowness leave me short of a thorough tiller like Chang Ju; I also loathe the creeping weeds among the crops. I greet the field hands and gardeners; clearing weeds and reclaiming wasteland must still be done with care.

On Woodcutting

Long have I yearned for life among forests and marshes; coming here, I rest content in sufficiency and ease. Fortunately I have slipped the bonds of the world’s snares; in quiet solitude my heart knows no vexation.

Staff in hand, I walk remote paths; the woodland scene is solid and still. A humble gate is half hidden by creeping plants; a square pond mirrors clear water.

A towering peak stands alone like a pillar of blue jade; a waterfall pours down as if streaming white jade. At evening I hear the woodcutter’s axe; the sound of felling trees stirs the imagination.

To hold fast to the way of integrity and stillness, one need not weigh whether one’s talent is high or low, or whether one’s actions seem clumsy. Faced with a world grown thin and harsh, why fret over being clever or dull? Reflect carefully on the teachings left by those who came before, and rest in a clear, tranquil mind.

Towering peaks seem to pierce the blue sky; flying springs pour down into a limpid pool. At dusk one hears the woodcutter’s axe— and from that simple act of cutting wood, thoughts stretch far into the distance.

To hold fast to the way of integrity and stillness, one need not weigh talent or clumsiness. Faced with a thin world, why struggle over cleverness or slowness? Ponder the instructions of the ancients, and leave the business of making a living to farming and honest labor.

Day after day one dwells at ease with fish and birds, unwilling to be stained by worldly grime, yet not allowing oneself to wither and run dry. Content in simplicity, one knows how to bend without breaking; keeping fullness in check, one also guards against the loss that pride invites.

Embrace the great Dao, and you may grasp what is coming before it arrives; lose the constant way, and you will only heed what fate seems to decree. Why sigh over Yuan Xian’s poverty? I alone have found that living through the world and passing through hardship in peace holds its own delight.

Raising the head or lowering it, the heart’s wish often misses what life offers; time races by, and one feels that a single blink is gone. For now, wash the feet and set aside the cap-strings, sing freely, and wash away the gloom within.

Night Sitting at the Mountain Lodge: Recording What Moved Me

I hide in a remote place—not to chase fame or gain. A life quiet and pure is enough to reveal true joy. At dawn I invite recluses to visit, staff in hand, and walk slowly into the distance.

Shubie brings out wine brewed in spring; vegetables from the garden still remain. Yansu gladly agrees to stay the night; outside the window, wind mingles with the sound of springs.

Dew on the grass, and the waiting insects never cease their chirping; starlight in the woods fills the empty night. Fragrant pool-water mirrors the newly risen moon; mountain air soaks the rich earth.

Deep stillness suits ease and contentment; unhurried movement also nourishes body and spirit. Light as a cicada shedding its muddy shell, one withdraws into depth and leaves sickness and vexation behind.

Long ago I ceased to keep company with the Four Whiteheads of Mount Shang; who would have thought I would now feel Zhuangzi’s urge to hide away? I burn brushwood through the long night, and for a while slip free of the world’s bonds.

Late Summer of the Yihai Year: On Returning to the Mountain and a Sudden Uplift

At summer’s end the heat still holds; the promise to dwell in the mountains matches my daily wish. River and plain lie under dense green; streams and sandbars stretch clear and wide.

Between the hamlets, dogs and cocks are quiet; a wild path leads into deep woods. By a round pool stands an open, numinous hall; layered peaks rank on high.

Lotus scent rides the morning dew; fish stir, and ripples mirror heavy shade. I throw on a robe and go out to rest at ease; I wash mind and body in the brook until they are clear and light.

To stand apart from the world is not to scorn it; to nurture what is genuine is to follow nature’s course. When autumn wind rises, it early stirs my thoughts, and I play the zither among the hills to give them voice.

Inscribed on a Painting of Secluded Dwelling in Mountain Forest

[The fourth section title appears alone in the source; if there was body text under this heading, it was not included in the passage supplied—only the title is present.]

My wish in daily life is to seek out quiet and beautiful places; while still young enough to travel, I also know I should return home early. I read not to pursue fame and official rank; leaning on my staff as I wander through forests and hills, I can still be at ease.

I choose my dwelling in the outskirts, leisurely enjoying the broad woods and streams. I cross a high bridge and pass through an empty village; at evening, misty clouds shroud the steep mountain ridges.

Farming and fishing bring me joy; after declining an official summons, I have at last found a place to settle. Old companions gradually pass away; though I have talent and virtue, I no longer seek advancement in the world.

Picturesque Scenery

I choose my dwelling in the outskirts, leisurely enjoying the broad woods and streams. I cross a high bridge and pass through an empty village; at evening, misty clouds shroud the steep mountain ridges.

Farming and fishing bring me joy; after declining an official summons, I have at last found a place to settle. Old companions gradually pass away; though I have talent and virtue, I no longer seek advancement in the world.

This painting of splendid scenery is like a scroll of an immortal realm; it also conveys refined sentiment and depicts the deep, secluded stream. I think of my own slow and dull nature, and wish to entrust my presence to mountains and waters.

Unrolling it to look, joy rises at once in my heart; from now on, I would live out the cold season with this feeling.

Evening Mood in Mountain Dwelling

Alone I keep a lofty integrity, entering a valley wrapped in dusk; autumn thoughts fill the hills. Here are pines and cassia trees to rely upon; weary birds, too, should know to return.

A chill wind blows with desolation; the pool’s water flows with a sound like jade rings striking one another. The sunny slope among fallen leaves remains bright and fine; orchids grow beside the wicker gate.

I push open the window and put my scattered thoughts in order; the distant wind grows faint, and the lingering bell is barely heard. Evening dew wets the chrysanthemum clumps; I pour wine and drink a little, letting my mood ease.

The troubles brought by hardship and success have all passed; whether the way lies open or in shadow, there is no need for resentment or fear. Fine virtue and reputation must be upheld by oneself in the end; examining myself, I seek only inner peace.

Long ago I understood Heaven’s mandate and knew fate has its own arrangement; content with enough, I am for now at ease with what is before me. The changes of heaven and earth are like a turning pivot or bubbles rising on water; a tiny human life drifts like floating dust.

Clear frost falls among grasses and trees; time in an instant is nearly spent. A cicada’s wing is not a wing that can soar into the clouds—why lament that one has sought too late?

The years that remain I would give to a quiet life, seeking deep stream valleys far from the dust of the world.

Winter Mountain Dwelling

I gladly pursue a life of simplicity and return to what is true, living plainly and keeping far from the world’s cage, dwelling on high ground. A remaining stream murmurs beside a distant path; leaning on my staff, I return to the secluded valley.

Wild sparrows call in the daylight, their voices reaching the wicker gate; a square pond lies clear and still, reflecting cold green. A sharp wind scatters the chill; frosted leaves slide along the winding path in the woods.

Moved by the scene, I feel my will cannot fully unfold, yet my heart is still bound by worldly ties. A humble gate and courtyard are enough for rest—living here, would I have reason to feel ashamed of dwelling hidden in the mountains?

The poet says that for a long time he has drawn on Sun Deng’s (the recluse’s) insight—why would he still need Ji Zhu (the skilled diviner) to tell him fortune or misfortune? The rest of his life he will use to nurture true nature and align with Heaven’s mandate; beyond that, what more could he desire?

Matters of clan and heirs touch human bonds and bring grief; each step is hard. He is ashamed that his self-cultivation has not reached perfection, yet he still admires lofty virtue and warns himself not to remain empty aspiration alone.

Once the world is seen through, one simply follows what is natural; adrift on the road, why fret in vain? What grieves him most is failing the resolve of earlier days—voices and forms of the past already far away.

Distant peaks hold layer on layer of mist; in the clear sky the frosty moon is bright. The cold stream flows with a sound like jade pendants striking; dew falls and the stars stand in their ranks.

The high pavilion is wrapped in mist; a biting cold wind blows. To examine oneself, the key is resting in Heaven’s mandate; to dwell in quiet and wait is what steadies the mind.

Yellow birds rest on a corner of the hill; those rushing in alarm suffer the bruises of the dusty world. In the empty valley are persons of fine character, long steeped in subtle principle. How chase the worldly and lose oneself, letting gain and loss wound upright qi? Those who understand are glad to follow Heaven’s mandate—why ask when the blue sky will let them see through everything?

Only by returning to supreme harmony and the subtle One (the harmonious, undivided origin) can the knots in the heart be undone. For now enjoy the clean fragrance of plum and bamboo; at year’s end, let ice and snow cover the four fields.

Resting with one’s back to the sun beneath the south window, daylight between the eaves warms the room. Dew drops in the bamboo grove and the clear sound can be heard; ice and snow melt away and the cold along the forest stream recedes.

Cold plum opens to the snow’s intent; grass and trees sway in the wind. The seasons turn in cycle; the yang of early spring brings rain across the broad earth. Layered hills are veiled in light cloud; the mountain stream’s voice is cold and long. Sitting quietly in deep cloud and water, the inner mind clear and empty, is enough to settle body and heart.

Who can say understanding Heaven’s way has nothing to do with oneself? To fully manifest nature depends on oneself. Past faults and dullness should be taken as warning; from the first, careful conduct is what lets one steadfastly walk the right path. How could one exhaust the subtleties of creation? Better to follow the tracks the sages left. He lifts his head and sighs at the azure sky, thinking to gather spirit herbs and live in seclusion—yet to whom could he speak?

A Small Mountain Drink, Offered to Wang and Ji, Two Exalted Scholars

Early spring sunlight is warm and clear; in stillness he gladly welcomes two friends. The dwelling bathes in faint morning light; mountain forest and spring water are quiet and wide, enough to lift the heart. Now and then he invites the two to share the leisure of cloud, water, and mountain dwelling.

From time to time I invite friends who wander the four quarters to gather for simple pleasure—not to indulge in ease or a life of loose comfort. I have long set aside the obligations of the world; like birds and fish, my heart opens and rests at ease.

When the inner mind is empty, still, and plain, it aligns with the Dao; the more detached the heart, the more it follows nature and moves freely. I see the great peng and the luan bird still rushing in pursuit, while people sink day and night in the nets of the mundane world.

I honor the kindness of Zheng and Li, who invited me to travel with them—how could I let myself drift on the tide of convention? Ashamed that I grow old and dull, I can only withdraw to quiet and lodge among wild grass and trees.

Fortunate to meet venerable elders, we sing aloud and the mind grows broad and clear.

Spring Rain

Fine rain falls on the high mountains; I set out to return to peaks wrapped in white clouds. Touched by worldly dust, floating cares arise; only dwelling in the forest brings ease and stillness.

The tint of water and the trees bring plain contentment, and the breath of spring runs all the deeper. Fish leap among round bubbles; birds call in dense shade.

Near the mountain stream the water widens; fallen blossoms drift onto a lonely path. I regret my lack of foresight to read events ahead, and can only hold a open, even heart—sighing in vain.

The way of Heaven is deep and subtle; only sincerity at the root will do. Careful self-cultivation is not something waited for until the right moment—who else could bear this resolve?

Sentiments at the Waterside Railing

By chance I meet a friend who shares my wish to wander far; living at ease, nothing outside holds the heart. Beside a square pond my quiet dwelling opens; water-light and tree-shadow breathe clarity and moist calm.

Days of hard rain flood the roads and weary the spirit; hearing pure sounds, the mood joins plain, detached intent. The garden pool is enough to mirror and settle courage and insight; with the inner mind bright, one meets the realm of clear purity.

Wind in the mountain gorge suddenly roars; a waterfall rushes down. Cloud-wrapped ridges loom distant and dim. Hidden bamboo first spreads new leaves; wild flowers shed their last petals.

Fields and valleys slowly take on summer green; as time turns, worldly thoughts again fill the heart. The mysterious, undivided cosmos has its own measure—I only wish to keep company a little with gulls and egrets, and live in quiet freedom.

Night at Dongpu, Yousheng Abbey, Hangzhou

In youth I resolved to travel seas and mountains; before twenty I was already reading the classics. I set my heart on life in the hills, plain in temperament, out of step with worldly fashion.

Once, touring Qiantang, I rested at this eastern garden lodge. Old friends’ past affection ran deep; new companions also harmonized, and in reunion we were glad.

I rested under green paulownia shade and sang aloud the “Yellow Magpie Song.” Bamboo before the window, washed by rain, showed fresh green; moonlight reached the bed and the step. Oranges ripened round after frost; reeds on the lake lay in mist.

Friends gathered and bonds grew strong; leisure matched a high, far aim. Yet at the first word of parting, the heart slowly drifted from days gone by. The sun sank in a grieving wind; cold tide rolled toward banks overgrown with grass.

Long Absence from Home

Years have passed since I left home, and another five have gone by. Faced with everything before me, I still hold back and do not act. Sitting long in one place, I feel myself growing thin and worn day by day. Why should one who has attained the Way be bound by such constraints?

When dawn comes, I rouse myself and turn my heart toward distant places, saying I will return to live in the fields and gardens. Wang Qiao, with the sound of his sheng and the cry of his crane, rises alone into the empty sky.

Basking in the Sun

I warm myself in the sun and delight in its gentle light; the mist thins and slowly lifts. Cold settles deep in the mountains; shade hangs heavy, and the trees in the courtyard stand sparse and bare.

Where the spring water pools low, the ground is flooded—I settle for now in the open country. Millet and grain grow on the ridges, but what I bring in is mostly hollow, unfilled ears.

In my heart I wonder: how is one to set things right? The temper of the age grows ever thinner; my own path has become unlike others’. Cold settles deep in the mountains; shade hangs heavy, and the trees in the courtyard stand sparse and bare.

Where the spring water pools low, the ground is flooded—I settle for now in the open country. Millet and grain grow on the ridges, but what I bring in is mostly hollow, unfilled ears.

In my heart I wonder: how is one to set things right? The temper of the age grows ever thinner; my own path has become unlike others’. Who would have thought this warm, mild pleasure could still be shared with the window frames and the people under my own roof?

Heavy frost withers the hundred grasses; quiet flowers lie scattered along the garden paths. I would offer these to my lord, yet truly do not know how; the garden’s neglect and filth, rather, is what I myself should clear away.

The ancient, simple mood, though sparse, is worth turning over in the mind again and again—its meaning never exhausted.

I have cast my lot on still, remote watersides, thinking this life enough. The walls on every side are low; mugwort and weeds block the gaps; cool tree shade covers the green enclosure.

For the time being I brace myself against wind and rain, preferring not to mingle with the world. Few are my companions; carriages and horses come rarely; cares lessen, and emotional ties weigh less.

Plain food, nothing in excess; sitting cross-legged in worn-out clothes. Old habits and worldly obstacles still grow; vain thoughts have long since become routine.

If I treat them as burdens, they feel hard to draw near; one floating thought winds into another in pursuit. Who can seek the harmonious qi of Heaven and Earth, so that the heart grows steady and returns to what is genuine?

The Gen hexagram (mountain, stopping, in the Yijing) holds the principle of ending and beginning; the last fruit left on the branch matches the image of mountain and tree.

Gazing at the Wild Landscape

The north wind whips up wild waves; the river is muddy and will not clear. Cattle and dogs cross the level hill ridges; leaves are gone, and the mountains crisscross in every direction.

Light mist spreads among woods and water; a lone bell sounds from the high city tower. I moor the boat to rest yet cannot sleep for long; all night the long river murmurs and sighs.

In patched clothes I have grown weary from trudging; days of rain will bring cold. The forms of the ten thousand things shift from morning to evening—what can this insubstantial body meet or bear?

In late spring, faced with a desolate scene, I rest my hand on my chest in melancholy. After rain the sky clears; the wind gradually dies away, and morning clouds drift past wild geese flying high. Riverside plants look faint in the weak dawn light; on the reed-covered islet, travelers’ footprints thin and scatter.

After the return, my mood eases somewhat; when weariness comes, I only wish to rest among wormwood and weeds. I lodge between heaven and earth; a brief life must end with the turning of all things. Whether in hardship or success, what is there worth clinging to? A hundred sighs only add needless trouble. Keep a sincere heart, return to what is natural, and cultivate the self in the middle way—neither too much nor too little. When can I shake off the clumsy pull of worldly affairs and withdraw like Chaofu and Xu You?

Staying at Qingyuan Abbey in Jurong—once the former residence of Master Ge the Immortal

The Way’s pattern runs in what is subtle and far-reaching; those who attain it leave traces of reclusion. Qingyuan Abbey, a grand hall, stands in a famous town; on past visits it moved me deeply.

Dust stays far from secluded lanes; winding paths ring a derelict pond. Grass by the pool bears evening dew; pines beside the high terrace murmur in the wind. Solemn, towering images are enshrined within, yet the old traces have faded and broken. The subtle lineage of the Way passes from predecessors; an ancient well and turtle-shaped relic remain here. (The lineage means the transmission of Dao teaching; Master Ge the Immortal is Ge Xuan, a legendary Daoist immortal.)

In the guest lodge my friend and I drink together; after lighting the lamp I enter my room. Sitting through the night, tangled thoughts slowly settle; looking upward, I cannot but feel the spirit of those who came before. At dawn the next day I walk on, reminding myself to practice with care and urge myself onward. Wondrous achievement is not beyond reach—it can long illuminate a dark and confused world.

Mountain walk on the second day of the third month, year Jiaxu

After rain the peaks stand clear; I take the homeward path through quiet fields. Spring grass spreads on a lonely track; shallow wild water washes the bridge. Birds call sharply, as if close at hand; oxen step slowly, drawing the plow. In deep shaded valleys springs murmur; bamboo thickens in the garden grove.

High in the hills an empty, quiet pavilion opens its windows; a wicker gate guards a dwelling deep in cloud and mist. Fresh floodwater brims the pond; green fills the window frame. I sweep the bed, sort the remaining books, and lean on my staff through tangled undergrowth. Hills and ravines suit my heart—why should the world’s filth hold me back?

Empty and still, free from worldly desires, I look far toward the footsteps of lofty men; amid hardship and danger, I think more carefully about truths subtle and deep. How can one dwell at ease? Leave the turmoil of the world and live hidden among trees, mountains, and stone.

Weary birds fold their wings and rest in nest on branch. Recalling how I once lost my way, I now have some awakening. For the moment I give voice to my wish to withdraw; in field and garden I may still spend a full life with purpose.

On Climbing to the Site of the Old Xiangshan Hall of Lord Wen’an

Fu Xi, Yao, Shun, and Yu followed the patterns of heaven and earth and upheld human relations through kingly governance. Shun and Yu took the throne and handed down a method of mind that was pure and single-minded.

When Zhou declined, the Ya and Song odes ceased to flourish. Confucius lamented the collapse of ritual and music; his words were anxious and urgent. Yi Yin and Fu Yue assisted their lords to great achievement; Mencius inherited and revived the way of the sages.

That great classic holds profound meaning and has shone through a hundred generations. Ages decay and dynasties turn; rise and fall often stray from heaven’s constant way.

Zhou Dunyi, Cheng Hao, Cheng Yi, and others of the Lian-Luo line opened the subtle transmission of the Way; Zhu Xi (Jianzhong) continued the lineage from Yu and Shun through Tang and Yao. Qingtian and Jingshan yield fine jade—a figure for Lord Wen’an’s outstanding talent and virtue; his broad learning and insight radiate in all directions.

The heart’s square inch governs our numinous nature; when the heart is dark and closed, that is not how nature is in itself. In movement and in stillness alike one should accord with supreme principle, ever watchful, strengthening oneself through inner cultivation.

The sages’ teaching is bright as sun, moon, and stars; resolve and integrity are pure as jade and frost. He studied the classics amid majestic rivers and mountains; the ancient scene at Xiangshan seemed, because of him, to gain a deeper, fuller presence.

In the snow hall lamps gathered at night; wind moved the courtyard, spring rain nourished the ten thousand things. Scholars of Guanzhong and Min saw how the Learning’s branches had grown tangled, yet in the end one must still press upon inner cultivation.

The sages’ teaching is bright as sun, moon, and stars; resolve and integrity are pure as jade and frost. He studied the classics amid majestic rivers and mountains; the ancient scene at Xiangshan seemed, because of him, to gain a deeper, fuller presence.

In the snow hall lamps gathered at night; wind moved the courtyard, spring rain nourished the ten thousand things. Scholars of Guanzhong and Min saw how the Learning’s branches had grown tangled; Chu too received the overflow of his influence.

My talent is dull and my understanding shallow; yet I have been fortunate to follow my teacher’s thorough instruction. Admiring those high peaks, I came to pay my respects; the Buddhist monastery was already choked with weeds and thorns.

I traced the Lu family’s traces and sought the old site—only wild fields and a high ridge standing there. I looked up in reverent awe; the autumn sky was clear and the sunlight bright.

A green terrace rose before my eyes; distant views blurred into the haze and shrank to tiny forms. Climbing to look around, I urged myself to follow the ancients’ steps—how dare I imagine I could see the whole of the primordial Way?

Waters rush; it is hard to stand firm like a midstream pillar. Who can be a phoenix and become a model for all to look up to? Carriage tracks reach everywhere under heaven; after a thousand years we still look up to the bright legacy the sages left.

New Year’s Day of the Guhai Year

The newly risen sun brought the turn of the year; days of rain were about to break at dawn. A slight warmth foretold spring’s nurture of the ten thousand things; clouds and scenery gradually unfolded.

A clear stream ran through quiet waters; pleasant birdcalls sounded among grass and trees. Plum blossoms fell and covered the mossy path; bamboo stood crisscross and slanting.

Duckweed drew in its tender new green; thick algae mirrored clear ripples. Reflecting on things was enough for quiet joy—among the moods of the ten thousand things, was there nothing worth savoring?

Year after year, as I think of my advancing age, I feel ashamed; my learning is slow, and in the end it seems I have missed the season when spring things grow. Clouds and scenery grow thin, about to unfold.

Clear stream water flows past a quiet sandbar; fine birds call among wild grass. Plum blossoms fall, scattered on a moss-covered path; bamboo grows in clusters, slanting and sparse in places.

Pond duckweed gathers tender green leaves; thick algae reflects clear ripples. To view things and grasp their meaning is already enough for joy; the moods of the ten thousand things—surely there is still more to apprehend?

Year after year, thinking how I grow older while my learning lags, it still comes to this. As dusk deepens, I can only sit alone in careful self-examination; the words of the ancients truly deserve to be written down.

After the Lantern Festival, Climbing Clear-Pass Hermitage in Fine Weather

After the Lantern Festival, spring sun brings a gentle warmth. I come out with my ailing body and stretch a little after long confinement indoors. Clear-Pass Hermitage, this quiet Daoist temple, is solemn and still; I have come here to wander in seclusion for more than a year.

The path is hidden under piled fallen leaves; empty wind sounds through wisteria. Plum blossoms drift lightly; bamboo and cypress set each other off. Quiet, remote scenery always clears the spirit; after rain, peaks like ink wash appear before the window.

On the night of the festival lanterns, the streets were noisy and crowded; I stood like a swan, my mind as if rising into a lofty realm. Comforting my heart, I revere all the more the quiet, far-reaching Way, and lean deeply on my long-held resolve. Reaching deep shade in the woods, I return weary; from this I understand that letting go of cares and leaving worldly burdens behind can free the spirit.

Inscribed at Dream-Crane Pavilion

Those who attain the Way can align with the deep, mysterious realm; they cultivate with long, quiet breathing—not merely sleeping in the body. The ten thousand transformations are like souls meeting; the “embryo immortal” (in Daoist lore, one who has cultivated the Way and can ascend) sometimes accords with a numinous realm.

In a secluded stone chamber he chants, praising a friend’s diligent study and tempered resolve. Moonlight on the pool casts vine shadows; green peaks among the trees fill the courtyard.

He reads Daoist books, grasping subtle principle, and with balanced Qi illuminates all things. Leaning on his desk, he listens to sounds like birdsong; his mood is easy and pleased, and small worries settle into calm.

Light as wind he suddenly soars aloft, swift as a qilin steed. I think of the Yellow Emperor and King Mu roaming fairy realms of old; worldly trifles, like butterflies and ants, seem slight. Zhuangzi once used Kun (an ancient name) to speak of breaking deadlocks; Duke Wei of Wei in his splendid carriage was empty fame after all. The world’s cares are sorrowful: between life and death, which is truly settled?

When clamor and worldly feeling disperse, after concentrating the mind in stillness one can see through the floating world. Remembering I once wished for office, I feel ashamed; then I beat my wings and strive for a lofty, free realm.

In open heights I meet mountain recluses; a thousand years seem to drift far away.

Watching a Spring Being Dug Out

A recluse farms and digs; seeing spring water open a channel and irrigate, he is deeply glad. Though the path to draw water is long, he does not fear the toil; when the spring flows, neighbors all share the benefit.

Servants are tired yet happy; people may say spirits helped. The farther one traces toward the source, the clearer the flow; stones are clean, and the mountain stream grows fuller.

The Way of transformation and nurturing is as vast as the primordial ocean—circulating and flowing without end. Though the ten thousand things differ in countless ways, at root they all follow one and the same principle; trace them to their source, and you can grasp how things begin and end.

Gather spring water in a ladle and it looks like no more than a spoonful—who would guess that day and night it flows on until it has amassed so great a volume? I pity dull, benighted people who cannot see that the myriad things have root and source. From this I wish to keep a quiet, plain heart: rinse my mouth with water and emulate the lofty integrity of Chao Fu and Xu You, the legendary recluses.

Cold Rain

Night rain leaves a lingering chill; morning bells drift into the hills. Withered branches cry in the fierce wind; the spring runs clear enough to scoop and rinse the mouth.

Woodcutters return with their loads to smoke-wisped doors in the mountains; mountain birds roost on frost-bitten pomelo boughs in silence. Worries lodge in my breast, yet my thoughts stay light—I will not contend with others.

Every day someone goes hungry in the fields; I fear heaven’s seasons fall out of tune and harm the crops. A belly full of lonely cares—whom can I tell? My steps are slow, and I feel ashamed before those of finer conduct who walk ahead.

Looking at what lies before me, I sigh at a declining age; who made this parting and estrangement between us? Cultivating the heart lies in holding fast to plain steadfastness; brush off the sleeve and cut off the world’s grime and trouble.

Inscription for the Hall of Continuing Goodness

The scriptures that carry the sages’ Way were scattered when Qin burned the books; what survived nearly vanished. The highest principle was veiled layer upon layer—could the sage mind truly be lost?

The lineage of Lianxi and Luoxue reopened the thread of Confucian learning, so that heaven’s benevolence could again be seen. Steadfast goodness is reason shared by all—only by living it does it grow more real day by day.

The sages’ Way is clear; in the end there is but one root; its subtle depths should be kept always in mind. Read the ancient classics and follow the sages’ teaching, and from first to last you may know the pure principle.

Later students inherit the family learning, skillfully taking up their forebears’ study, still thick and sincere. Hill-light and spring moisture wrap the scene; deep woods hold the evening mist. With worthy friends we talk and chant, admonishing one another—truly we gain instruction. From this we must strive to keep a firm, upright integrity and follow in former footsteps, learning their words and deeds.

Inscription on the Picture of the Cold-Wind Terrace

Master Zhuang (Zhuangzi) saw that the ten thousand things shift as breath blows through them; who can lightly judge one who has penetrated the principle of life? Bending and rising between heaven and earth, flourishing and decline are finer than a hair’s breadth.

This lofty man admired steadfast character and rested among trees and flowing water. Bright moon crossed the clear stream; an ethereal song rode the water into the clouds. The wild geese that flew far are beyond sight; the melody left behind recalls “Spring Radiance,” that lofty qin tune.

He embraced simplicity, understood the quiet ease of a life at rest, and loved to dwell among mountains, forests, and stream valleys. The clear stillness around Elephant Ridge was a good place to settle; old friends often came to visit.

The mountains seemed to gather within a few mats’ space; stony brooks wound and crossed. Autumn rain beat the swift water at the stream’s edge; spring clouds hung over the tilled fields. Crossing crooked bridges and mossy paths, penetrating the islets, one reached where woodcutters and fishermen came and went. Dense trees offered shade to rest under; life in the fields was pleasure enough.

From this one knew he had long left the dusty world; to cultivate the inner self suited keeping stillness and empty clarity. His forebears’ virtue matched his far-reaching aims; a fine reputation stayed ever at his side.

Yesterday I called at his wicker gate; morning wind shook sparse yellow leaves loose. In talk I washed away worldly cares and felt a deep admiration rise; at evening parting I still could not bear to go, lingering long before I could settle.

His plain teaching few could fully match; one who long received such good nurture was truly no ordinary man. As a model of weighty virtue, who could like him meet advance and retreat at any moment with ease?

His former breadth of mind was already deep and far; the traces of his reclusion were indeed outstanding. Long-lived as pine, grave and upright; aligned with the subtle Dao, hence his character firm and mellow. May he receive guidance from the Clear Capital (the immortal realm in Daoist lore) and show me those precious immortal writings.

“Eastern Garden”: for Wang Jingzhou of Qiantang

Immortals lodge in hidden depths, leave the tracks of the world, and no longer cling to showy splendor. A true great hermit is not bound by dust; sometimes even the bodily form is hidden, dwelling in remote places.

This gentleman’s bearing was clear and refined; he loosened constraints and opened wide his windows. In a fragrant garden he built a quiet abode; hall and chambers had a jeweled beauty but did not chase gaudy color. All around the walls grew lush plants; in the open courtyard a first feast was laid. Green bamboo flourished; curtains hung in deep shade.

In the Yellow Chamber (in internal alchemy, the bodily region corresponding to spleen and earth) he studied ritual scripture; before the Purple Pavilion he dreamed of cloud-vapor. Riding the crane, reed-pipe music followed; drawing water to drink, the well spring was cool.

The eastern realm (Donghao) had long lacked talent; one ought to promote those with profound De (virtue aligned with the Dao). Once I wandered west and lingered in numinous halls. Tall parasol trees shaded sparse window lattices; as firewood burned, sounds like a zither string arose. Evening horn-notes scattered into morning rain; autumn tide rose and fell with the moon’s wax and wane.

I once lingered long among lakes and mountains; how could the dust of worldly turmoil come only from without? Thanks to the guidance of venerable elders, I went forward with a humble heart, wandering in the profound, subtle realm of the Dao.

Do not hesitate—Xianmen (the legendary immortal) will come to meet you; see through the ten thousand things, and you may still be ahead of the crowd.

Departing from Jingkou at Dawn

At dawn we broke through the mist and set out; as we left the river, the perilous waves grew sparse. By the cold city, willows were veiled in haze; autumn water mirrored wind-stirred cattails.

Fine rain soaked the trees and grass; congealed frost hid the wild grass on the sandbars. The small boat moored at a suburban islet; on that quiet skiff I again unrolled a scroll to study closely.

The quiet dwelling was broad and bright, as if white clouds had settled beside the eaves and steps. Far from the vulgar world, I no longer envied a hidden, recumbent life; only Zhen of Gugu (the Han recluse Zheng Zizhen of Gugu) was fit to dwell in the valley.

Old letters piled up in the curtains of my former home, and talent and literary grace moved the heart. Fine poems showed elegant diction; travelers still asked me where traces of the past remained.

Slanting rain suddenly gleamed crystal-clear, urging the oars forward. I pushed open the cabin cover and wrote what rose in the moment, also to encourage myself to rest in plainness and quiet emptiness.

Distant indigo peaks marked the journey; the remaining tide showed whether the waters were ebbing or flowing.

Ascending to the Mysterious Chamber of the True Person of Fanghu

Spirit-filled peaks bore auspicious signs; the immortal had once cultivated in halls of splendor. In youth his ambition was extraordinary; he had gone to the divine capital to attend upon the soaring dragon. He befriended scholars of the Jade Hall and traced the paths of the Golden Horse Gate at court. Writing and calligraphy doubled his fame, yet he still longed for life beyond the dust.

The golden immortal had the bearing of a Yinghai paradise; the dragon well lay upon the high peak. The secret transmission was enough to make one forget mundane affairs, to gather the spirit and hold fast to the centered, authentic inner state (a Daoist practice of reining in the mind and guarding one’s true nature).

I had once trudged through rugged valleys and long since left worldly delusion behind. Autumn wind blew through Min and Yue; clouds hid the views of Mount Yan and Mount Tai. After returning east I revived the will to retire and often went with others to seek instruction.

With brush and ink I followed the ancient sages Xi and Xu (legendary early calligraphers); with painting I echoed vast, expansive qi. Literary canons showed Han survivals; in clerical script I took Qin seal inscriptions as still insufficient. I was ashamed of my dull talent and limited ability, yet from spring through winter I studied diligently.

We boiled tea by the brazier and watched plum blossoms covered in snow; facing the tide I composed verse and listened to the stream-wind. My heart admired the Orchid Pavilion; my name spread within the seas; skilled in pure conversation, my reputation stood out east of the river.

As I grew older I gained some modest virtue, yet still wearied myself rushing to the capital to seek the worthy. Famous places grew renowned because many upheld them—but is it truly high office and rich stipends that matter?

When I returned home the seal and sash I wore had turned yellow, and I suddenly felt myself aged; I withdrew to live quietly among osmanthus trees. My grief was full of remembrance and admiration: the refined friends of old have scattered, and the garden feels desolate and empty.

Ten years have passed since that friend departed on a distant journey—as if riding a crane aloft into the far reaches of the sky. Morning rain has altered the look of the outskirts; I carry wine and food to offer among thorn and wild grass. The written pledges and words we once exchanged move us both to sigh; we only hope that the realm of the spirits may meet across the shades.

Casual Musings

I have cut off social ties and reduced the pull of worldly business, letting tangled thoughts disperse so the mind rests in calm. After mountain rain the green of summer grows deeper; at dusk smoke and mist rise from the forest. The stream’s clamor seems to reach the gate of the courtyard; by the pond the green grass runs thick and long. Great trees flourish more richly in the sunlight, and fresh bamboo brings cool shade. Each thing has its fitting way to live; flourishing and decline touch the same heart. I admire the lofty bearing of the sages of old, yet vainly chase time that is gone. The inscriptions and admonitions left by ancient worthies stand clear before me; I keep careful watch in solitude and am ever alert to peril. I entrust my humble intent to these lines, hoping to gather with the few who truly understand.

Subtle principle is hidden within the ten thousand things; the wondrous root is vast and deep, worth seeking. How could one chase empty traces? Better for a time to dwell in the empty silence of the mountains.

Morning Reflections

Going out at dawn, I already feel the chill; a light wind fills the tall woods. The waning moon shares the lightening sky; sparse stars shine faintly among the shade of the paulownia. The village lies against a distant bend of the water; cockcrow drifts from the thickets. Morning mist hides the fragrant trees; night’s haze still lightly veils the high peaks.

The stream among the pines pours into layered valleys as I walk alone along a rugged mountain path. Branches are wet with dew; a fresh, clean breath fills the valley. I love this quiet, beautiful dwelling and have long wearied of the world’s turmoil. Wandering the outskirts I let my mood rest at ease—how could I let such petty affairs enslave me?

Stream and mountain each have their own life; mist-wrapped woods suggest the hermit life of woodcutter and fisherman. I keep far from the dust of the world and lodge myself here; my aspiration is lofty, far from the glitter of high office. The sound of flowing water accompanies my slow steps and stirs in me the mood to play the qin in the hills.

Ascending Mount Huagai

The transformation of Heaven and Earth is settled; traces of the divine make plain the sacred root. The summit of Mount Huagai stands eminent; its natural numinous breath has long accorded with the subtle mechanism of the Dao.

I follow the old traces to visit; this ascent answers what I have long awaited. The hidden secret is opened and handed down; deep merit appears in solemn, hidden rite. One refines the body to achieve the golden elixir; weapons are laid aside as one rises into the air to meet the glow of cinnabar clouds. On Mount Kongtong a cliff-side altar is opened; on the empty platform a chessboard is set.

From deep in the grotto thunder murmurs faintly; the spring veins hold cool, moist breath. Wondrous sights show strange and mighty forms; jade banners flash as if ranks were riding side by side.

Traces of immortals from antiquity have passed down through many generations; among mountains and rivers, secluded and wondrous scenes vie to reveal themselves. Though I have entered my later years, I still cherish the admiration of youth, and so I climb mountains to seek them out and explore with care.

The peaks cluster together like jade hairpins in a row; winding paths on the mountainside twist and turn, steep and hard to travel. Towering cliffs inspire awe; undulating ridges seem like dragons coiling. Strange sights show a bold and uncanny air, as if banners of the immortal realm were arrayed and shining forth.

Clouds stretch across the peaks like a bright white ribbon; streams bend and encircle like soft silk. Wind in the bamboo groves echoes through the valley; forest fragrance drifts, as if rainbows wound through the trees.

The layout of the immortal palace can be described; humble thatched cottages too seem touched by the immortal realm. Guest quarters stand open for viewing quiet scenery; eaves shelter against the cold mist.

The four directions extend to distant bounds; all things gather into what is subtle and hidden. Looking down on the human world, the dust of the world seems like an altar; gazing again at Mount Song and Mount Hua, their heights and depths seem hard to fix.

When weary, I rest briefly in the mist; in the distance I behold the vast celestial court. Supreme virtue shines forth; sincere prayer is offered; cultivation of the Dao accords with the wishes hidden deep in the heart.

Heaven and earth are vast; all things return to the primal unity of the One—who can fathom where it begins?

Visiting Yulong Palace at Western Mountain

Far from the world, with deep reverence, I follow the spiritual traces left by lofty immortals. A majestic citadel stands between the Yangtze and Han rivers; temples and halls line up along tier upon tier of peaks.

The sun’s vital essence nurtured Haoji; the order of Heaven was revealed in the Jin and Shu eras. A strange dragon caused disorder and brought calamity to the people; a short sword established divine merit. Deep construction gathers extraordinary beauty; the highest spirit has been honored generation after generation. I am fortunate to inherit the true Dao, and so I follow the path I ought to pursue in my search.

Layer upon layer of mountain streams pour with murmuring water; fertile fields are hidden among sparse pines. Pines drift lightly; village houses appear in glimpses; winding paths skirt the woods toward where bells sound.

Great cypresses still flourish; dried spring eyes hold only a trickle of water. Wild moss covers old buildings; on former sites deep grass grows. The palace roofs, like carriage canopies, rest in empty space—where now is the fullness of cinnabar splendor? The people receive fine blessings; those who cultivate the Dao harbor far-reaching resolve.

Mountains and rivers have always moved in ceaseless cycles; the way of guarding and governing is revealed under Heaven. Night air stills the forest; warm spring winds blow gently.

In secret I emulate the profound cultivation of Jing Dan; after casting off the mortal body, I shall again follow the Dao. I must urge myself to look up to the deeds of the ancients and behold the boundless expanse of heaven and earth.

Inscription for Sicheng Studio

Heaven and earth move within the vast space above and below and in the four directions; stillness and responsiveness never cease. Both movement and stillness take root in the primordial beginning, and subtle principle gathers and runs through the three powers of Heaven, Earth, and humanity.

How vast is the mind of the worthy and the sage! They take sincerity as their foundation, with a single-minded intent that does not shift with external things. The teaching of Confucius awakened Meng Ke (Mencius); the key to cultivating the self lies in keeping the inner heart constantly alert.

The Confucian who carefully nurtures virtue takes Yan Hui as his model, holding to the right path with a reverent heart. As cultivation deepens, the nature of the heart grows ever brighter; even principles that are profound and subtle should be explored to the full.

Consider the mechanism of heaven-and-earth’s creation: the ten thousand things respond to one another and transform in hidden ways. When the heart holds fast to the root, glory and decline are both like dust and sand—not worth dwelling on.

If the restless, mixed thoughts in the heart can be clarified and stilled, one can discern the deep workings of creation; such insight stands firm as metal and stone. One wishes to probe the way of practice deeply and, through vigorous, unceasing action, align with the running of the Way of heaven spoken of in the Yijing.

On Orchids

In a quiet valley, orchids grow in abundance, loving the warm sun of early morning. They put forth bright, graceful forms; though hidden in the mountains, they still send out a rich fragrance.

Orchid stems rise straight and hollow at the core; branches are upright and steadfast; blossoms are fair and fragrance travels far. They grow according to their nature, in accord with pure character—not to win fortune or rank.

See the deep, silent forest hollow, little known to anyone; fine trees cluster, and famous flowers seem long to have taken root in numinous soil. Orchids stand out in beauty, white and plain, in harmony with good and kind companions.

Orchids flourish, and their scent grows richer. Their stems are hollow, upright, and firm; blossoms lovely, fragrance far-reaching. They grow by nature, in pure integrity—not seeking blessing or emolument.

In that deep, quiet valley, seldom visited, good trees mass together and the celebrated flower is rooted there. Orchids excel in beauty, clean and simple, at one with worthy peers. Year after year they thrive and yield a wondrous fragrance.

A light breeze stirs; dew moves among leaves and petals, and thick mist condenses into a faint perfume. Generous rain nourishes the land, and bright moonlight falls on grass and trees.

The orchid’s lofty character is hoped to match that of sages and worthies; reading Qu Yuan’s legacy, the Lisao, one cannot but grieve his fate. One imagines wandering far at ease, picking orchids to wear—yet trudging distant roads only ends in vain contact with the dust of the world.

In a quiet chamber, keeping to integrity and independence, like-minded friends may be few, but their bond runs deeper. A good omen seems to answer an old pledge; with aims set far ahead, what need to mind whether it is dawn or dusk?

Gather in the broad view that looks down on the eight directions, still the heart to feel the deep mechanism of creation, and at last return to the source from which the ten thousand things are born.

Returning to Xian Spring in Winter

Setting out at dawn, my steps were slow and hard—I felt ashamed; now, back to rest, I rejoice in mountain hollows and forest depths. Scenes in the outlying hamlets match the season; wild paths wind along the stream.

I return to peaks wrapped in white cloud; mist-shrouded trees still hold a trace of green. Shallow fords draw in cold water; steep ridges wear a mantle of fine woodland.

The crops in abandoned fields are already harvested; the hermit’s dwelling hides among the trees. Long ago I gave my heart to quiet simplicity; wise words also match my plain wish.

A gentle breeze brushes away the dust from one’s breast; fine rain nourishes noble feeling. Weariness fades, and vexation in the heart eases; in moments of peril, even ties as slight as scraps of paper can be severed.

Since ancient times people have longed for the summons of the worthy; refined integrity aligns with steadfast, independent character. The world’s vanities may constantly entangle and stain the mind, yet the hidden true nature remains self-sufficient. One straightens cap and robes and gazes far; one urges oneself to quiet speech and dwells among pines and chrysanthemums.

Evening of the Twenty-third of the Sixth Month—A Banquet at Xian Rock

Days of rain have washed away autumn’s gloom; we sought the quiet path and boated through a clear bend. We agreed early to meet, coming in the waning heat to enjoy mountains and water—just the right season.

Flowers and trees flourish, setting one another off; elders of virtue excel in refined conversation. Shallow streams ring the sandbars; distant rapids secretly reach the bay. Steep stones stand like scattered loom frames; a clear deep pool mirrors swirling water. Duckweed and gulls dot the surface white as snowflakes; egrets on the shoals skim past like floating silver.

Wild vines tangle, half hidden in deep shade; distant hills wear a veil of fine rain. We sought marvels to the remotest nooks and at last found the path to Cloud Rock.

In the deep stone cavern, tiger- and dragon-shaped strange rocks crouch; traces of immortals seem to open a gateway. Moss runs deep, nearly burying the hearth; green vines stretch across the loom. We gave a long cry and worldly vulgarity seemed to fall away at once; ethereal song stirred the mist. On the hanging cliff was a secluded chamber; we sat in a row on level sand and talked.

Such a gathering was no ordinary feast—laughter of kindred spirits mingled with food and wine. Had our hearts not matched the immortals’ pure refinement, how could we have passed these days as if in the isles of Fang and Ying? We paid sincere homage at the Fugu Shrine, regretting only that worldly duties made us late. Dantai is famed for bold, strange scenery; here wind and thunder are fit to guard it.

Seen across vast kalpas, all is but a floating raft; one clear heart is enough to wash away the dust of ages.

Thoughts on Watching the Rain

Early summer brought days of heavy rain; trees grew thick and lush around the pavilion. The stream roared with sudden flood; after rain the peaks shed haze and shone clear. Deep green boughs shaded the eaves; tall bamboo lent quiet to the open courtyard. On rainy days few came and went; mud and standing water cut off carriage and horse.

For now one amuses oneself with brush and ink, holds to the right path, and in cultivation awaits the hour. Hidden virtue lies deep in the heart; starting from the subtle, one may reach breadth and depth at last.

Thinking that I might yet travel to the region of Zhu and Si to hear the teachings of sages, I sigh that I can only look up to their moral stature, lofty as a mountain. Yin cold gathers, succeeding the summer heat; wishing to harmonize the primordial qi of heaven and earth, I am ashamed that worldly thoughts still linger in my heart.

When I sit in quiet, my spirit seems to roam far off, and I hear the cry of the yellow bird. The spring water flows broad and long, its source extending without end.

Inscription for the Studio of Reverence

Human beings are endowed from birth with a constant innate goodness; the sage’s teaching restores people to this original nature. His disposition is pure and solid, his intelligence kind; Confucian scholars honor him and regard him as talent like polished jade.

He follows the instructions of the ancients and studies the Book of Poetry and the Book of Documents; though a hundred generations pass, he still meets the men of old in spirit. To cultivate reverence, the key is single-mindedness; to live with respect and solemnity is like walking at ease in a broad, comfortable dwelling.

Between lake and mountain, a dignified hall rises in grandeur; at ease he enjoys the leisure of the open plain. In an enlightened age he entered public service and at the Imperial Academy took part in deliberations on ritual and institutions.

Gentle and modest, he accorded with subtle, profound principle; his refined bearing was widely known. He stored up learning and virtue, hoping they would grow richer day by day, and looked to later generations to carry on the family tradition.

Leisure Verses on an Evening at My Dwelling

Between lake and mountain, a dignified hall rises in grandeur; at ease he enjoys the leisure of the open plain. In an enlightened age he entered public service and at the Imperial Academy took part in deliberations on ritual and institutions.

Gentle and modest, he accorded with subtle, profound principle; his refined bearing was widely known. He stored up learning and virtue, hoping they would grow richer day by day, and looked to later generations to carry on the family tradition.

Casual Verses on an Evening’s Mood

The pond is clear, and flowers and grasses along the bank are fragrant; newly swollen water spreads over a lovely bend. Clouds drift past and veil the sky; cold mist hangs above the deep ravine.

Where mud and standing water lie, few footsteps pass; as dusk falls, the calls of birds and frogs gradually fade. The distant scene recalls a day long since promised, while the heart sighs again at urgent affairs before the eyes.

In quiet retirement I savor the comfort of the moment, yet worldly worries still cling. Empty tracks arise with the dust of the world; the true root is subtle and formless, beyond all seeking.

Spring’s splendor passes in another year; growing old makes one all the more ashamed—and all the more drawn to fine conduct. Gain and loss I leave to the changing way of things; dwelling in hills and fields, plowing and coming and going are enough.

Mountain Rain

In early summer I return to my old home; the midsummer sun grows hotter day by day. I rest lying among the trees, lying peacefully at ease, with no care in my heart.

In the mountain stream the wind mingles with the roar of rushing water; in the fields frogs call where grass and trees give shade. Fish glide lightly through fragrant weeds and algae; among tall trees cloud-mist drifts in stillness.

Luxuriant, upright bamboo grows tall; in the empty courtyard bamboo shadows cross and weave. Thick clouds suddenly turn into heavy rain; all night the torrents rush.

When morning comes after the rain, the lotus leaves still hold a chill. I have resigned my office and come to a remote place. Mist and waves stretch vast, far from the human world; mind and footsteps alike are plain and quiet, leisurely and remote.

Must I still chirp in vain like mosquitoes, or play the futile game of a bird drowning in water? In vain I lament that my early ambitions have gone astray; confined in narrow quarters, I only add to the sorrow of a long journey.

Anguish ultimately cannot be dispelled; for now I rest briefly by the clear waters. I resolve to follow sages who hide from the world, and for long bid farewell to the inquiries and turmoil of worldly life.

Walking by the South Ravine

I renounce the dusty world and dwell in a humble thatched hut; after packing my things, I often climb high to gaze afar. Hills and woods are full of autumn mood; in ravines and valleys, grass and trees flourish.

The hidden valley is veiled by thin clouds; layer upon layer of peaks rise steep and solitary. After rain the plain is fresh and moist; fallen leaves drift lightly in the breeze.

Alas, I am trapped by an unfavorable fate; my withdrawal is not for the sake of fame. Long illness has gradually weakened my body, and the money spent on medicine is indeed considerable.

From this I know that regret and worry always follow one another, and gain and loss inevitably invite others’ ridicule. People choose whom to attach themselves to, changing allegiance as their patron rises or falls; to please others, even eating and deportment must follow others’ moods.

I scorn drifting with the current, and lament how rank and aspiration in this world differ so greatly. Some are like silk and bamboo instruments and may still find use; I am like a crude earthen jar, unable to produce a long, pleasing tone.

I settle myself in a life of drawing water by hand to irrigate the garden, content and at ease, happening upon the free pleasure of lotus leaves as shelter. Why imitate the distressed, sighing at life’s dead end? I delight in long cries among the Sumen hills, seeking relief for the spirit.

Human nature bears the lot heaven assigns; within quiet Wuwei (non-action) lies a profound principle. Pitiable are those of narrow mind, who day and night torment themselves.

All things in the end return to one place; I wish to cast off my official hat and attach my heart to angling. If handle and axe-socket do not fit, they cannot work together; when circumstances are hard, how can one lightly alter a bright, upright character?

Flattery spreads so fast it can turn a man into a tiger; forgiveness and understanding depend on a clear, just eye.

Early Return After Snow

Men of reclusion have always loved quiet wandering; they hold to integrity and remain chaste and independent. The winter weather stayed mild for long; I said I would return and arrange woodcutting and herding.

Worldly clamor is suddenly washed away; inwardly I long rest in emptiness and simplicity. Snowflakes like wax shavings veil the layered clouds; on the wind-lashed cliff stands a lone tree.

Newly opened plum blossoms hold the breath of myriad flowers; the dried pool reflects a clear, cold green. I open the window and straighten the old hanging curtains; I kindle firewood and continue the bright candle’s light.

I sigh that I am caught in the world’s net; after weariness, I leave my bonds and seek release. Forced travel still feels hard; on the desolate path, pine and chrysanthemum have withered too.

The nets of the secular world bring sorrow; I am weary of rushing about and wish to break free of their bonds. Forced to struggle along a hard road, even the pine and chrysanthemum beside a lonely path slowly wither.

Fortunately I have received the regard of the clear-minded and worthy, who also understand my former hardship. Who still resolves to pursue later rank and the bonds that feel like punishment? I only wish to keep company with friends and with the deer.

Now the breath of the dusty world hurries one along—wheel meets wheel, and the heels are bruised again and again. I am ashamed to have set my heart on the Way yet still run the path of office; why should rise and fall, honor and disgrace, startle me like an insect whose antennae have been touched?

I wish to be with those who are quiet and practice wuwei (non-action), to come to the stream and wash my ears and leave the clamor behind. It is not that I lack the skill to butcher an ox; I am only ashamed to chase profit and fame and forget what I truly seek.

I would sit at ease under the pine on Mount Gouliu, moor my boat by the bamboo at Shanyin. I would forever rest in friendship that endures the cold of the year—even frost and bitter cold would not wither its fragrance.

The dark season is not yet past; why does spring slip away so fast? Awake to the world’s emptiness, life is indeed like duckweed on water; when the mind is clear and bright, desire falls away.

Alas for those who chase perch and sturgeon, willing to be driven and pressed like rotting carp. A thousand years of words come to nothing in the end; I sing aloud and return to the deep valley.

Rain Thoughts in an Early-Autumn Mountain Dwelling

Summer rain withdraws and autumn gathers; thin clouds wrap a damp, lonely path. I seek the source of the water and visit my old place, climb the field ridge, and see distant homes.

Ripe grain bows before the farmhouses; a clear spring wells up from deep within Xianshan. The quiet ridge is lucid green; on the high hill, trees stripped by falling leaves lie open to view.

Morning talk mingles with pleasant bird calls; where I walk there is only quiet moss. Newly swollen stream water winds around the courtyard; every plant grows fuller day by day.

I hold the wish to hide in hills and woods—how could the world’s ties make me drop that heart? My body is frail, yet I trust this is following my allotted years; I am willing to leave my nature clumsy and go as heaven leads.

Is there not the reclusive spirit of a Sun Deng? I still urge myself with Ge Hong’s spirit of arduous cultivation. Seeing through affairs, I no longer drift like duckweed; though madness stirs in the heart, it ought to return to stillness.

Congratulations to Lia’an Li Dongtang on His Eightieth Year

Through long years there are often those who live long; may you stand firm as a high mountain and enjoy the longevity of turtle and crane. Qingdu—the realm of immortals in legend—rightly belongs to the deeply virtuous elder; one such as you should long ago have tasted high age.

You have seen through the world’s illusion and kept peace and warmth for long; in the jade chamber you swallow huajing—the essence prized in Daoist nourishing life and practice. You also take the plain teachings of Confucianism as aid, guarding the heart and nurturing nature, settling the self.

After the banquet ended, we gathered in the Pengwei—the immortal palaces of the transcendent realm. The cold sky was clear and bright, and tier upon tier of halls unfolded before us. Morning wind brought fine rain; evening waters shone clear, as quiet as an autumn night.

We pledged ourselves to shared taste and lofty character, and joy and harmony bound us—courtier and commoner alike. Cloud-waves washed the jade-like seats; moonlight and dew filled the gilded pillars.

An Gui prized the beauty of dove-shaped ornaments, as if following Pu Wen’s steady, unhurried step. Pines and cypresses endure through winter, outlasting the sun’s brief glare; great mountains and rivers ought to be the measure of human bearing.

In the Xuán calendar, years seem to slow; those who devote themselves to cultivation guard all living beings. Thus one may long preserve life and keep white hair at bay, penetrate the hidden, and transcend the way of immortals.

Touring the Immortal Cliff

Spirit peaks tower above the range; autumn is clear and the air crisp. We meant to wander beyond the dusty world, to drift on the water and savor the deep scenery.

Streams and sandbars wind and circle; rapids at the shoals curl upward. The River Lord seems to have built a palace in the water; nature-woven brocade hangs like curtains on every side.

The immortal altar stands grand upon Han-era ruins; a tiger’s roar echoes through the empty valley. We pay homage at the Yao Palace, where cinnabar cliffs show wonder upon wonder.

He’s wine brims in a full gourd; Meng’s ingenuity spins without rest, like thread on a wheel. In seeking the hidden, our mood gathers and holds; our hearts are open and at ease—more than the famed men of old.

On Mount Daju, flying eaves rise high; figures cast in fine gold gleam above. At dusk we drink and talk freely, each unfolding his talent. At dawn we set out from a clear pool; fine ripples spread far.

Strange and perilous traces of the numinous startle us—what is there worth fretting over? The Jiang brothers shared one cover, deep in affection; Chen’s quick wit draws envy. Wang Gong’s countenance is pure and fair; Hao Meng’s ambition should be even broader.

Sharp in word and expression, a match for Yuan Hong; talk so subtle it recalls Guo Xiang. Remote isles are like the Peach Blossom Spring; by the water’s edge the plain is thick with grass and trees, facing one another.

Asking the way to seek the immortal realm beats chasing the world; how can such airy words count as vain boast? The little quail sits beside those who rush through life; sacrificial beasts adorned for ritual blush at worldly thoughts.

Heaven and earth stretch far—to the Qi and the Bohai; the sound of heaven fills the cosmos. Wander as you will—why climb like an ape? Forget clever scheming, like gulls that come and go at ease.

We agreed beforehand to drink chrysanthemum wine together; gazing from a height, who could match the joy of that old excursion? I survey what I have seen and note light impressions; my thoughts reach far into the open void.

Glory and decay cross ages in an instant; for now we stretch out in lofty, untrammeled spirit. Without nature firm as metal and stone, one can hardly fathom what the Xuanzhu—the pearl of mystery hiding the truth of the Great Dao—conceals.

I lift my eyes awaiting the immortal Quanqi; his lofty bearing is not easily forgotten.

Setting Out at Dawn on the Xin River

At dawn I set out from Lingxi; gazing into the distance, trees along the river stretch far away. Dwellings in the wild cling to the edge of the village, and morning cooking smoke drifts over the cold waters of the sandbar.

The thud of waterwheels pounding rice mingles with the distant murmur of the stream; crows wheel above the deep bend of the water.

Setting Out at Dawn on the Xin River

At dawn I set out from Lingxi; gazing into the distance, trees along the river stretch far away. Dwellings in the wild cling to the edge of the village, and morning cooking smoke drifts over the cold waters of the sandbar.

The thud of waterwheels pounding rice mingles with the distant murmur of the stream; crows wheel above the deep bend of the water. Frost and dew cover deep, hidden plants; peak upon peak rises fine and bright, as if gathered phoenixes were massed together.

Returning to my homeland eases the heart; the ache of parting tugs at thoughts of kin and friends. Long I have kept wishes that do not fit the times; now, meeting a true friend, my mood clears as if starlight had lit the dawn.

Days on the road were never long to begin with, yet the season’s face turns almost to evening in a blink. I drink from a gourd—life plain and free; I open my robe and let the cool dew touch my skin.

Clear Night Moon After Snow

After morning snow the sky clears; the peaks stand like bluish-green jade. I wander and gaze in the empty woods; the view opens the breast and the delight runs deep.

A small boat rests on the broad remnant current; wild smoke hangs thin over scattered roofs. Branch on branch grows lush and fair; thickets of grass still hold winter’s green.

I hold ambitions beyond the common world, bend the mind to reflection, and keep little taste for worldly desire. I hide in mountain forests, content in quiet purity and uprightness; the words of those who came before can serve as encouragement for myself.

I seek a realm vast and remote and send thought toward distant places; even rising alone, one need not hesitate and turn back. Talent held within and not displayed—I should still honor what is ancient; loving the old Way, a full inner life is enough.

All things follow the transformations of one Qi (vital energy); yang unfolds and nestles gently in the depths. I need not be ashamed of stretching myself like the inch-long toad, nor lack inward store like pearls kept in a casket.

The full moon is pure, shedding frost-bright light; refined feeling is entrusted to the bamboo in the courtyard.

Self-Contentment in Secluded Dwelling

The sky is clear, spring light pure; the quiet dwelling is spacious and at ease. I come to the valley, my heart drawn to mountain forests and spring waters.