《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 10

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) expresses his unique late-life reflections on spring through seven poems titled "Encountering Spring in Old Age" in the tenth volume of his Yichuan Jirang Ji.

The first poem suggests that an old man need not doubt spring—though aged, he retains a youthful heart. When human connections grow cold, wine cannot dispel sorrow; the chill lingers, and flowers have yet to bloom. Beyond the dike, a slanting breeze stirs the willows; after rain, moss sprouts by the wall. Last year’s eastward-flowing waters have vanished, yet where the old green fades, new green arrives—a metaphor for time’s ceaseless flow.

The second depicts the radiant spring light before the Cold Food Festival. The lingering chill is perfect for nurturing blossoms; sudden showers clearing to sunshine best sober one from drink. Wine should be enjoyed with restraint, and planting peaches and plums (symbolizing nurturing the young) requires balance. Light conversation has run its course, so wild poetry now replaces music.

The third describes the fresh clarity after rain around Qingming. Palace eaves reflect the lengthening sunlight, yet in the warmed gardens, no orioles sing. From the pavilion, one sees brocades of flowers; from the carriage, lush grass like fine mats. The Spring God grants such abundance—how fortunate to live in lasting peace.

The fourth advises against wearying of spring’s beauty, especially in bustling Tianjin (Luoyang). Since one dwells among bamboo and streams, one should master the winds and blossoms. Clear rubble from old courtyards, till new beds to plant orchids with care. Where else, beyond this haven of leisure, could one find such solace?

The fifth declares that only in old age does one truly understand spring. Its splendor belongs to the idle—only then does one grasp the Spring God’s (Qingdi) creative power. No need to chase after youth’s follies; savor new wine and dew-kissed blooms. Rare things cannot be forced—Nature’s work never shortchanges anyone.

The sixth paints spring in full flourish: rippling light and willow hues blend seamlessly; pavilions and greenery stir endless delight. Yet while raising cups in unrestrained joy, beware storms that might shatter this tranquil scene. Amid a riot of colors, is there another idler like me?

The seventh urges no disdain for spring’s light, no baseless doubts about its labors. Cherish the crimson blossoms before you; let white hairs multiply as they will. Rain leaves tear-streaked petals; the wind-combed new moon arches like brows. Though fresh wine fills the cup, age trembles in the hand that holds it.

Through spring’s imagery, these poems reveal an elder’s serene outlook: yielding to nature’s rhythms, treasuring the present, embracing leisure—each line suffused with Daoist wisdom of harmonizing with the seasons.

When spring visits one in old age, don't begrudge its frequent returns—how many more springs can we witness? Seize guests by the sleeve for another cup, lest the flowering branches mock our hesitation. The world's fickleness brings laughter to newcomers and tears to those cast aside; all things change, making truth and illusion indistinguishable. Who says the swallows nesting on beams are merely chatterboxes? Their hearts harbor unspoken grievances beyond counting.

In old age encountering spring, one's delight remains undiminished, wishing spring would linger longer. Loving blossoms inevitably brings sorrow for their fading—better light candles for nocturnal revels while passion persists. Wine's merits surpass battlefield glories; poetry's sins outshine romantic debts. Even the Spring God tires of human mischief, having tormented flowering branches past endurance.

Facing spring in later years, don't fear unrestrained joy—constraint stifles delight. Just as gardens reach peak radiance, wind and rain arrive to vandalize. Half-opened flowers demand immediate admiration; newly brewed wine must be sampled promptly. Heaven hoards beauty with miserly hands—these matters lie beyond mortal control.

Spring too grows feeble in an old man's company, burdened by declining years. One's own aging matters little, but where now to seek spring's vibrant gaze? As the sun sinks westward, winds grow urgent, scattering petals into deep waters. Orioles, oblivious to blossoms' impending end, persist in sweet-throated songs from the boughs.

Old eyes see through spring's illusions; seeing through spares excessive grief. Heart and mind find their own repose—how could grasses and trees beguile them? Today's splendor becomes tomorrow's decay; this year's stale blooms were last year's fresh marvels. Worldly sorrow and joy walk hand in hand—how much wine can smooth the ripples in your heart?

("In Response to Sima Guang's 'Long Waiting at Chongde Pavilion Without Arrival'")

The swallows beneath your roofbeam left last spring's village festival—this year they still haven't returned. They deserve punishment for making you wait... but look, beyond that sea of blossoms, a carriage comes creeping.

("Another Verse")

Heaven endowed you with eight pecks of talent*; this rustic must turn back halfway. That immortal promise proves hardest to forget: beyond the flower hedge, the little carriage never came.

("Two Parting Quatrains")

Outside the tower, riotous blooms block the carriage path—your profound kindness stays unforgettable. Were peach and plum trees deputized to convey thanks, what could these mute plants possibly express?

(Background note: These poems reflect Shao Yong's enlightened mindset in later years, blending Daoist acceptance of natural rhythms with daily life. "Spring" symbolizes both seasonal cycles and life's vicissitudes. Images like "punishing swallows" and "little carriage" display literati refinement, while contrasts between "wine cups" and "flower branches" reveal poignant awareness of time's passage.)

An ancient Chinese measure of literary talent, where one peck equaled about 9 liters. The phrase "eight pecks of talent" became proverbial for extraordinary ability.

Selected Passages from The Yichuan Collection of Striking Earthenware Interpreted:

While admiring flowers from a high pavilion, I recall a broken promise and feel it's beyond remedy. If poetry could atone for this fault, why couldn't we have kept each other company anytime?

"Spring Day Ascending the Stone Pavilion" depicts the mansions of high officials in Luoyang, where they cultivated peach and plum trees as life's pleasures. Every February when climbing high to gaze afar, one sees no outlines of dwellings—only a splendid sea of blossoms.

In "Reflections at Sixty-Three," the sixty-three-year-old poet confesses: Though teeth and hair have decayed, my aspirations remain undiminished. I'm ashamed to waste spirit (Shen) on trivial matters, nor will I abuse my talents. Harsh sounds like bone-scraping surgery bring sorrow, while petty cleverness wearies me. I recall the admonition of Patriarch Chen Tuan (renowned Daoist hermit): What seems like loss may actually be gain.

"Meditation on Affairs" contrasts ancient and modern ways: The ancients, though unseen, revealed their righteousness-over-profit mindset; moderns, though visible, show only profit-over-righteousness surfaces. The righteous benefit others; the profit-seekers harm people. Harmers ultimately reap consequences—even if escaping personally, disasters befall their descendants.

"Occasional Writings" observes all things find their place, yet humans alone possess supreme spirituality. Fragrant orchids, qilin beasts, and phoenixes—few who resonate with such goodness prove unvirtuous; poisonous weeds, birds of prey, and venomous creatures—few aligned with such dangers refrain from evil. The good seek peace; the wicked crave destruction, ceaselessly day and night. Heaven and earth impartially embrace all, thus appearing boundless.

"Stray Verses" compares frogs crawling in mud to phoenixes soaring beyond clouds—such vast gaps defy mutual understanding.

"Ode to Great Harmony Brew" describes winemaking: Two ingredients harmonize in the vat, achieving perfection when sealed. Shared drinking springs from leisure; solitary cups don't signal melancholy. One sip brings bodily ease; mild intoxication feels like roaming with Fuxi (ancient sage). All praise drunken bliss—yet who would stop before reaching it?

"Bamboo Pruning" portrays tending a bamboo grove: Bamboos weathering winters with pines get obscured by tangled branches. Clearing redundant growth reveals straight trunks. The tidied grove sings like dragons and phoenixes in wind and rain. Beyond practical uses, such upright character proves most precious.

"Ode to Heaven's Will" elucidates cosmic principles: Heaven manifests will through seasonal changes and celestial movements; humans reveal hearts through words and deeds. Though differing, both follow fundamental Dao.

Plain Language Interpretation of Yichuan Jirang Ji:

These poems express Daoist ideals of following nature’s flow and transcending worldly fame. The first poem states that the will of heaven is simply natural law—one must maintain integrity even in solitude, and cultivation begins at the root. The sage’s realm is beyond ordinary reach, like pearls hidden in unfathomable depths.

The poem for Ancestor Longtu adopts a playful tone: "We share the same age, yet you’re twenty-seven days my senior. Between us, no grudges exist—only joy deepens our bond. But remember, you still owe me eight hundred taels of gold!" (This refers to fees for composing an epitaph under my name when Zexi buried his kin.)

In Holding Wine, the sixty-three-year-old poet advises his son: "Though I’ve yet to attain the highest state, my understanding of the Dao leaves no shame. Worldly splendor now seems pale; only mountain forests stir my longing." Calling it "greed" is merely to deflect others’ suspicions.

Facing Flowers depicts spring revelry: "Blossoms reflect in my wine cup—I beg them not to fade too soon. Wine emptied can be refilled, but fallen flowers know no remedy." It urges seizing joy, for spring’s light is fleeting.

Ode to the Four Dao*s reveals universal patterns: "Heaven’s Dao waxes and wanes; Earth’s terrain shifts between peril and plain. Human affairs rise and fall; all things flourish and wither." These cycles never align, yet humans bear their clashes—hence our endless grief and delight.

Chanting Beneath Trees celebrates reclusion: "The woods’ marvels elude vulgar minds. When the moon first rounds and buds just burst, we drink fine wine with kindred spirits. Few in this world share our idle grace."

Spring Gloom laments overcast days: "Endless damp dims the spring—I long to tend flowers, yet miss the full moon’s glow and blooms’ debut. Neither flowers nor moon heed my yearning."

Another verse observes: "Rare are lasting flowers or oft-seen full moons. Even at their peak, wind and rain may ravish them—how then can the human heart find peace?"

Admonishing the Flowers personifies blossoms: "Oh branches, understand: your glory lasts but ten days, while human life spans a century. Wine and blooms stir tenderest passions—were it not for poetry’s release, this enchantment would bind me forever."

Song of Laziness embodies carefree ease: "Too idle to rise early, I savor drowsy hours unrestrained."

(Note: All translations preserve key Daoist terms like Dao while adapting classical imagery into natural English idioms. The tone balances scholarly precision with lyrical flow, mirroring the original’s blend of philosophy and rustic charm.)

Selections from The Yichuan Collection of Beating the Earth (Interpretation in Modern English):

Between dream and wakefulness, a bittersweet melancholy rises in the heart. Lying curled beneath the quilt, one watches falling petals beyond the window stirring deeper emotions.

On human affairs: The natures of noble and petty men differ fundamentally, just as higher wisdom and base ignorance cannot be easily transformed. How could the roots of wild vines intertwine with divine lingzhi mushrooms? Yet both must share the same heaven and earth.

Three delusions: The first is growing old yet refusing to rest; the second is having comfort yet finding no joy; the third is possessing leisure yet lacking inner peace. These three delusions all wound oneself.

Four joys: First is longevity entering blessed realms; second is abundant harvests in joyful lands; third is leisure bestowing virtuous fortune; fourth is health granting auspicious power.

On being human: Stand firm as a true pillar between heaven and earth; never become a shortsighted mediocrity when facing matters. Since life's course is already ordained, why scheme excessively?

Questioning spring: Since ancient times, flower appreciation always mentions orioles—yet blossoms and birds should appear together. Why do the orioles arrive only after petals fall? They vainly claim the reputation of "blossom-and-bird" companionship. When asked why spring arranges things thus, spring remains silent—does it secretly favor bees and butterflies? The orioles, unwilling to be wronged by spring, cry out ten thousand songs.

From a tower to a friend: Some always dismiss ordinary spring scenery, yet spring holds profound meaning. Though none could be more content in humble lanes than I, ascending this tower still makes me think of you. Clouds veil emerald mountains; glazed tiles shimmer half-new in misty rain. Leaning on railings demands perfect detachment—but who truly achieves this?

On gain and loss: The more one loses, the less one gains—only sighs remain between them. Human flourishing and withering follow nature's course; why fret over blossoms' coming and going? Chance meetings lead to farewells; shared joy turns abruptly to shared sorrow. Seeing essence renders nothing troublesome—why haggle over trivial disputes?

Drinking amid flowers: Blossoming branches reflect in wine cups; cups mirror splendid flowers. Having lived through two peaceful reigns, witnessing four glorious generations. With health still robust, meeting a hundred flowers in full bloom. Crimson flower-shadows ripple in wine—how could one not drink to blissful collapse?

The joy of quiet dwelling: For tranquil living, none surpass Luoyang—no quiet place under heaven compares. Here converge cultural treasures and worthy scholars from all quarters; here emperors built capitals through the ages. Holding fragrant stems in peerless flower groves...

The collection Yichuan Jirang Ji presents several poems that reveal the leisurely contentment and philosophical reflections of Song Dynasty literatus Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu). The first poem depicts his farewell drinking with friend Zhang Zijian—though eight years apart left some regret, the wine revealed true camaraderie. He suggests a true gentleman should stand out like Luoyang peonies, as all exceptional figures through history are rare gifts shaped by heaven and earth.

The second poem expresses sentiments after reading a friend's verses. While paintings may capture appearances, he observes, they cannot match poetry in conveying emotions. Reading his friend's scroll describing Gongcheng felt like revisiting their hometown—though the changed landscape seemed unfamiliar, gazing at the ancestral mountains still evoked their former majesty. Neither fame nor current affairs seemed worth discussing, leaving only twin trails of clear tears to express longing.

Ode to Joyous Things expounds the philosophy of all things finding their proper place: sun, moon, and stars form heaven's radiance; ears, eyes, mouth, and nose constitute human awareness—from these emerge imperial achievements. The will of heaven and earth isn't distant, but manifests through human sentiments and natural principles. Birds, beasts, and plants each have their categories; scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants fulfill their roles. He simply prays for annual harvests and peace, sharing prosperity with all creation.

Delighting in Spring expresses attachment to the season: when spring first arrives, he greets it with poetry; as it prepares to depart, he pursues it with wine. He drinks to its coming and going, composes verses for blossoms blooming and fading. Between flowers withering and blooming, his poems flow unceasing; where spring departs and returns, his wine cup lifts repeatedly. This depth of feeling isn't forced youthful posturing, but the natural overflow of harmonious Qi (vital energy) within.

Late Spring Musings uses the lovesick Pan You envying willow catkins as metaphor for his own youthful ambitions worn away and old age's unfamiliarity with new trends. Poetic faults are often forgiven, while wine becomes the stage for self-praise. His deepest melancholy lies in seeing most dear friends scattered to the winds.

The final two poems address Wang Zhongmei (honorifically titled "Chief Minister") retiring from office. The first observes that in seventy years of life, following Zhang Heng's (courtesy name Pingzi) example in writing Returning to the Fields to withdraw timely shows wisdom. Dwelling contentedly among woods and streams nurtures one's nature, free from official constraints—when Shao recently visited by carriage, he found the noble Wang peacefully napping on a spring afternoon. The second praises Wang's insight in resigning during prosperous times: since antiquity, talented scholars sought achievement, yet only Wang understood timely withdrawal. His lifelong aspirations remained unconstrained, making his resignation at the height of success most fitting—as carefree as willow branches swaying in a gentle breeze.

Selected Passages from Yichuan Jirang Ji in Modern Interpretation:

The first poem depicts a leisurely state of mind where carriages pass noisily by the gate in spring, yet no one inquires about the visitors. It then shifts to a meeting with Wang Langzhong of Beijing: though the friend arrives in spring, an unexpected frost withers the blossoms. Though poetic exchanges occur, the writer feels words cannot fully convey sentiments, lamenting that talented individuals should cherish their gifts rather than squander them.

Ode to Joy enumerates five life blessings: being born in the Central Plains, becoming a man, attaining literacy, living in peaceful times, and hearing moral teachings; along with five delights of Luoyang: abundance of kind people, scenic beauty, frequent auspicious events, exquisite goods, and social stability. The poet modestly claims limited talent yet maintains serenity through contentment.

Hymn of Happiness paints a vibrant portrait of ideal living in peaceful times: befriending sages, admiring landscapes, enjoying fine wine and delicacies, eventually passing away peacefully in this golden age.

Song of Heavenly Dao contemplates cosmic principles versus human affairs: while natural laws prove comprehensible, human hearts remain inscrutable. True cultivation lies in quiet sitting (the phrase "hidden table" denotes meditation) rather than forceful contention. The poet favors Confucius' approach in composing Spring and Autumn Annals - following inspiration while roaming freely in a simple carriage.

Chamber Verse celebrates simple living's satisfactions: a modest hut provides ample shelter, maintaining springlike warmth year-round with constant wine and worthy companions. It mentions two friends: Sima Guang (courtesy name Junshi) admiring blossoms in a cave, and an official viewing moonlight from a tower. Should they meet, they'd likely mock the poet's excessive conventionality.

Solitary Stroll by Luo River praises transcendent character: while multitudes scramble for fame (official carriages symbolizing rank), true gentlemen remain unmoved. The concluding couplet describes scenery: fading wind, pale sunset veiled by clouds, and egrets hovering in evening mist.

Post-Rain Stroll at Tianjin Bridge reflects on history: Luoyang shrouded in post-rain mist holds countless rise-and-fall tales recorded in annals since Tang and Han dynasties. "Tianjin" refers to Luoyang's historic bridge where the poet walks alone, contemplating historical vicissitudes.

The Yichuan Jirang Ji is a poetry collection by Shao Yong, a Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian scholar, documenting his contemplative life in Luoyang. The verses depict the city's springtime beauty while revealing the author's detached attitude toward fame and fortune.

In the "Spring Scenery" section, the poet laments how last year's spring could not be retained, while this year's spring remains elusive. Finding Luoyang's every corner resembling a utopian retreat, he leisurely rides his small cart through eastern streets in search of spring. "Ode to Peaceful Times" portrays an era of universal tranquility and personal contentment, particularly when flowers bloom in abundance—a sight that inevitably brings joy.

The four-poem series "Inscribed at Jinping Mountain During Cold Food Festival" captures the Qingming season's atmosphere. Amid mountains covered with competing peach and plum blossoms, the poet cannot bear watching them scattered by wind, choosing instead to climb high, drink wine, and admire spring from afar. He admires the flowers' gentle nature, silently accepting their fate even when blown away by fierce winds.

"Two Years' Journey to Jinping" mentions the poet's two-year separation from a friend surnamed Zheng, comparing the absence to "an immortal yet to return from mountain caves." The two quatrains "Peony Colors Before Eastern Pavilion" extol the Shao family peonies' extraordinary beauty—twenty-four blossoms in full bloom so magnificent that the poet proudly claims seven or eight parts of Luoyang's spring splendor belong to his household.

"Trapped Indoors by Rain During Flower Season" describes March in Luoyang when rainfall confines the poet indoors, leaving only birdsongs and falling petals as spring's messengers. The concluding "Verses from the Nest of Comfort" expresses his philosophy of contentment: cultivating self in tranquil surroundings, befriending scholars nationwide, and wandering through Luoyang's gardens. Quoting Sima Guang's line "Only then I learn—level ground cannot show spring's full glory," he suggests one must ascend heights to comprehend spring's entirety, metaphorically advocating broadened perspectives in life.

These works showcase Shao Yong's meticulous observations of nature and human existence as a Neo-Confucian thinker, blending admiration for spring's beauty with philosophical reflections on enlightened detachment.

Living in my cozy nest of contentment, I need not worry about worldly affairs, keeping only the ancient texts left by Fu Xi (the sage king of antiquity). When weary, I lean on my pillow to rest without needing sleep; when inspired, I take my bamboo staff for leisurely strolls. I collect dew to brew tea and cultivate fishwort herbs for medicinal purposes. Had it not been for the wisdom of ancient sages revealed through their classics, I might have become just another shallow vulgarian.

In this nest of ease, I repeatedly study old books, finishing them only to begin anew. Three thousand days and nights pass by lamplight, twenty years dissolve amidst waterside blossoms. Though the world's mountains and rivers are beautiful, they cannot be possessed—better to fully enjoy this clear breeze and bright moon. Don't ask why I spend my days chanting poetry—this cultivation practice is beyond worldly understanding.

Dwelling in my nest of contentment brings more joy than being a lord of ten thousand households. I never let fine scenery and good times go to waste—spring days are for complete leisure, old age for unrestrained delight. At dawn I watch dew-laden flowers fill the railings; when warm wine perfumes the air, I raise my cup freely. The sages (Daoist adepts) best understand how to handle life's small pleasures—both carefree and worry-free.

Awakening from spring dreams in my nest of ease, not a trace of worldly dust remains in my heart. A fresh breeze brushes between my seats, distant celestial music faintly heard. Following the sun's shadow, I stroll with my staff; beneath interlacing flower shades, I rest against wine vessels. Where in this world compares to my homeland's goodness? Moreover, my homeland teems with extraordinary talents.

Spring's hues never fade in this nest of peace—this mountain elder comes and goes freely in his small cart. Slowly I ride along willow-shaded banks, meandering through blossom-covered dikes. During Qingming, I feast my eyes on spring's triple beauty; though four dynasties have passed, I remain hale. Below Phoenix Tower by Tianjin Bridge, drunk on spring breezes, I ride home reclining in my carriage.

Three whole months pass in my nest of contentment—only in old age do I truly cherish spring's beauty. I know this pure happiness comes from heaven—not for ten thousand gold would I exchange it. Drink fine wine until pleasantly mellow, admire flowers at half-bloom—this subtle state defies description, feared forever beyond worldly comprehension.

In late spring's nest of ease, I sit quietly behind closed gates with few visitors. After light rain, bamboo groves retain their moisture; clear birdsong rings from flowering branches. When encountering beauty, I record it in verse; to maintain joy, fine wine is indispensable. As for other worldly matters? I simply turn my head and say "I know not."

My nest of contentment holds true abundance—a single couch at its center suffices for repose. Refined elegance has sublimated into the great Dao's realm, all four seasons warm as spring. Sun and moon take turns illuminating this heaven-and-earth.

These passages from The Collection of Striking Earthen Vessels at Yichuan express the author's reflections on tranquil living and his philosophy of existence.

The first passage discusses the relationship between humans and the sun, suggesting that one's words should be as trustworthy as the sun's daily rising. People should follow natural rhythms without excessive striving. When ill, moderate recuperation suffices—medicine isn't needed when healthy, and misfortunes should be accepted with equanimity. Once understanding the Dao (the Way), excessive contemplation becomes futile; better to enjoy peaceful afternoon naps.

The second passage captures the transition from spring to early summer. While lamenting spring's departure, it finds beauty in the coming season. Drinking should be moderate to avoid drunkenness, and flowers appreciated before they wither. Grasping these principles prevents unnecessary sorrow. In old age especially, one should cherish joyful moments, as intoxication and faded blossoms bring melancholy.

The third passage celebrates the contentment of a man born in peaceful times, enjoying prosperity in his comfortable abode. Writing bold poetry displays vigor, while sipping fine wine from small cups savors refinement. After rain, mountains and rivers appear freshly cleansed; spring brings flourishing vegetation. Nature's exquisite transformations perfectly complement the leisurely observer.

The fourth passage emphasizes maintaining Confucian dignity even in carefree living. Slowly savoring mellow wine from small cups contrasts with composing heroic verses in bold calligraphy. Spring rains nurture lush foliage, while autumn's clarity reveals pristine landscapes. Infinite delights emerge from idleness, worthy of a true gentleman.

The poem "Eating Pears" contrasts two pear varieties, advising readers to choose the sweet Hongxiao pear over the astringent Jinhua pear. This becomes a metaphor for wise life choices—discernment should precede decisions.

The final poem responds to a friend. It depicts mountain-encircled scenery, recalls shared flower-viewing joys, and proposes another outing. Autumn's radiance inspires poetry, while cool weather invites wine. Though breezes bring pleasure, greater delight awaits wandering among lotus blossoms in deeper waters.