《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 19
About this page. The original text of 《伊川擊壤集》 Vol. 19 (Taixuan 太玄部, 20 volumes) is shown in Classical Chinese as transmitted in the Kanripo (Kyoto University) edition. An English interpretation of the 8 passages on this page accompanies it: select a passage or press “Interpretation” to show it. All texts in English
Reading modes explained
- Horizontal: ordinary left-to-right reading; the interpretation can be shown.
- Scroll: vertical text running right to left; the wheel scrolls sideways (no interpretation in this mode).
- Wheel: columns of vertical text turn around a drum; use the wheel, drag or arrow keys, or auto-play.
- Pages: about 200 characters per page; use the buttons, swipe or arrow keys.
Source textInterpretation
The nineteenth volume of the Yichuan Jirang Ji contains philosophical poems by the Northern Song Confucian scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu), which explore human nature and the way of living through contrasts and metaphors.
In The Song of the Unvirtuous, the author notes that wicked people are born with corrupt Qi (vital energy), their temperaments as venomous as snakes and scorpions, while virtuous individuals are endowed with clarity, their character as precious as gold and jade, their sentiments as fragrant as orchids. The Song of Difference further contrasts the noble and the petty: the noble rejoice upon hearing of goodness and seek to emulate the virtuous, while the petty detest good deeds and envy the worthy.
The Song of Gain and Loss laments how time slips away unnoticed, and by the time one awakens to it, old age has arrived, revealing the gap between aspirations and reality. The Song of Sorrow continues this theme, expressing grief over the passage of time and the difficulty of transmitting the Dao (the Way), feeling the relentless march of the years especially at year's end. Year’s End depicts a sixty-six-year-old man sighing over newly sprouted white hair, mocking himself as neither a Confucian scholar nor an immortal, finding solace only in wine and moonlit reverie.
The Song of the Brush’s Vigor describes a leisurely scene of composing poetry by a warm spring window, the brushstrokes flowing as freely as blossoming spring flowers. The Song of Shadow and Substance uses the relationship between form and shadow as a metaphor for the interdependence of inner nature and the physical body: the mind is the inner master, the body its external shadow, the two inseparable companions.
The Song of Joy and Sorrow observes that both extreme joy and grief rob one of sleep, yet transcending these emotions unlocks resolution in all things. The Songs of Seeing Through repeatedly emphasize the wisdom of "understanding the principles of things and discerning human nature": after enlightenment, one can handle weighty matters as effortlessly as sealing the Hangu Pass with a clay pellet or slicing jade with a sharp sword; it is like quenching thirst with fine wine or finding the right physician for an ailment—perfectly apt. One may even unravel a century’s confusion with a single word, glimpsing heavenly secrets within human affairs. Yet the poems also mock those who claim insight but act contemptibly.
When one comprehends the laws governing all things and sees through the ways of the world, admonitions lose their meaning, leaving only sighs. Upon truly understanding natural principles and human nature, one realizes that wielding persuasive power is less profound than relinquishing control altogether.
Having grasped the patterns of affairs and human relationships, it's better to withdraw timely than to persist in observation. Just as flowers at their peak must wither and luxuriant leaves must eventually fall—such is the Dao of nature. With this understanding, handling matters becomes poised and decisive—why hesitate? When one perceives the truth of existence, even the weightiest affairs of state cease to appear daunting.
In life, I've always cherished mild, exquisite wine—its gentle intoxication brings supreme delight. This joy resembles returning to youth, warm as early spring, ineffable as the primordial chaos before heaven and earth divided. Nobility and baseness are relative: what lies within one's control should be pursued diligently, while matters determined by others cannot be forced. Even emperors need not be arrogant, nor commoners self-abasing.
In uncertain circumstances and difficult situations, a person's crisis management ability becomes most evident. Affairs know no scale of importance; people experience gains and losses: success springs from prudence, failure often from brute force. Aging follows inevitable laws—just as the sun invariably returns to its zenith.
After twenty years apart from a friend, receiving an unexpected letter brings profound warmth. Though worthy scholars abound everywhere, one still remembers old companions across a thousand miles. With accumulated experience comes discernment of worldly attitudes; prolonged familiarity with material affairs naturally reveals closeness and distance. Now in old age, I find contentment in simplicity, dwelling idly in Luoyang without purposeful action.
The noble person (junzi) esteems purity and sincerity—these endure through long years; the petty person (xiaoren) delights in deception and obscuration—these cannot last. The noble corrects faults and ultimately awakens; the petty conceals errors and remains forever lost. Awakening brings blessings; confusion invites calamity.
Before life begins, we cannot know its origin; only after birth do we recognize Heaven's mandate. Aligning with this mandate rectifies one's nature: the noble fulfills Heaven's endowed form, while the petty debases their own vitality. The principles of darkness and light (referring to the complementary unity of Yin-Yang, life and death) reside within a single heart-mind.
The Yichuan Jirang Collection contains several philosophical poems that convey life principles through simple metaphors:
On Light and Darkness:
The sun and moon illuminate all things by day, while spirits and ghosts cling to human forms in darkness. Light manifests through objects, while darkness emerges from the human mind. Without the interaction between people and things, how could darkness and light be distinguished?
On Conduct:
Only through personal experience does one truly understand; only by handling things firsthand does one grasp their essence. Between heaven and earth, whether looking up or down, one must always maintain sincerity.
On Speech and Action:
Words should be measured, and principles valued for their appropriateness. Matters requiring change demand careful deliberation; action must be preceded by thorough consideration.
On Humanity and Heaven-Earth:
Though the body is born after heaven and earth, the mind can transcend them. Even heaven and earth arise from the perception of "self"—what else is there to boast about?
Four Permissible Principles:
What is worth striving for is action; what can be trusted is a promise; what can be entrusted is life; and what ultimately sustains us is the Dao (the Way).
Four Prohibitions:
Do not speak recklessly; do not abandon things halfway; do not treat life lightly; do not defy heavenly principles.
A House as a Metaphor for Life:
Everyone loves to dwell in a new house, while all wish to leave a crumbling one. Yet if the owner diligently repairs it, when could it not be habitable?
On Petty Behavior:
Petty people feel no shame, valuing profit over life. They neither revere others nor care for public opinion.
Physiognomy Maxim:
Clear bones signify a lucid spirit (Shen); meager blessings mean light misfortunes.
Healing as a Metaphor:
The body is like a nation—when ill, one seeks a doctor. After recovery, medicine must be used in moderation; only proper adjustment ensures harmony.
Leisure in February:
The mountains and woods have no concerns, knowing only the flowers of February. Wine should be tasted fresh; blossoms are best admired half-open. Mild intoxication brings the finest delight, utterly free from sorrow. Who can etch this beauty forever in their heart?
Reflections in March:
The whole city strolls in spring, yet the season must depart. Though creation governs growth, wanderers find no anchor. Rain-drenched pear blossoms resemble tears; willow catkins scatter wildly in the wind. The beauty of Qingming is splendid—yet alas, how fleeting!
The Path to Achievement:
To speak the highest words, one must first possess the highest insight; to become the finest person, one must undertake the finest endeavors.
The Rise and Fall of All Things:
Success and failure follow heaven's decree; prosperity and decline each have their time. Though petty men harbor greed, how could the Dao (the Way) tolerate selfishness? Momentary joy turns to emptiness—observe who remains to admire the scenery after spring fades.
Spring in Luoyang:
No scenery under heaven rivals Luoyang; no floral display surpasses spring. Yet the subtlest charms of blossoms and seasons are bestowed upon idle souls to savor.
The people of Luoyang are accustomed to common peach and plum blossoms, paying them little heed when they bloom. Only when the peonies burst into full splendor does the entire city truly rejoice.
When peach and plum flowers bloom, no one appreciates them, for the true flower-viewing season arrives with the peonies. During peony season, wine prices rise, and even at midnight, revelers still linger outdoors.
Time never pauses its relentless march—ninety days of spring vanish in the blink of an eye. Countless fallen petals find no resting place, half carried away by flowing water, half scattered to the wind.
As spring departs and flowers fade, daylight grows longer while swallows and orioles busy themselves with their own affairs. Why do sightseers no longer come and go? In truth, the lush green shade may not be inferior to crimson blossoms.
Within ten days, all the beautiful flowers wither away—pitiful how the God of Spring (Qingdi) exhausts his ingenuity. Wanderers, don't claim this is baseless—who says red blossoms must surpass green shade?
Where does spring ultimately return? Countless springtime regrets remain unspoken. I'd ask the oriole to inquire of its whereabouts, but the cuckoo (Zigui) cries "Better go home."
The cycle of seasons consumes a year's span, yet only spring witnesses a hundred flowers bloom. Spending ten thousand coins on wine isn't extravagance—but once red blossoms fade, can they bloom anew?
"Self-Reflection Verse"
Sixty-seven years of human life,
An ordinary mortal in this world.
Dwelling where the four directions align,
All things are complete within one body.
No joy exists greater than beyond heaven,
Yet my breast holds springs of different light.
"Falling Blossoms Verse"
Crimson and purple petals drift everywhere,
Peach and plum blossoms carpet streamside paths.
Fierce wind and rain herald approaching dusk,
Song-filled towers grow sparse of human traces.
Floating petals find no resting place on water,
Stray reds by roadside cling to nothing at all.
Orioles need not sing their mournful tunes—
When such scenes appear, spring has gone home.
"Late Spring Verse"
When flowers bloom, spring stands at noon,
When petals fall, spring's hues grow dim.
Who'd expect the cuckoo's cry
Could voice "Better go home" so true?
Butterflies swarm when spring arrives,
Cuckoos wail as spring departs.
How can we return to those early days
When gentle breezes first caressed the earth?
Birds know naught of human sorrow,
Only that spring nears its end.
Some cry "Fill the wine jars!"
Others call "Better go home."
"Coin Verse"
This thing called money (coin and cloth)
Has no feet yet walks the human world.
Skilled at stirring wordless strife,
Compelling smiles where none belong.
Paying small debts prolongs life,
Saving dire need equals Great Elixir's might.
Only sages like Shang Mountain's Four Haos
Remain unfettered by gold's chains.
"Peony Verse"
Same hue, same fragrance they may bear,
Yet peony's scent is celestial perfume,
Its colors transcend the ordinary.
This is the True Ruler's exquisite craft—
How could mortal minds comprehend such art?
These poems from The Collection of Striking the Earth at Yichuan are works by the Northern Song Confucian scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu), expressing his reflections on life, moral cultivation, and the relationship between heaven and humanity. Here is a modern interpretation:
After the passing of Zhang Zai (courtesy name Zihou) of Fengxiang, Shao Yong lamented: The mountains and rivers of Qin have nurtured talents throughout history, each era producing virtuous individuals who revive the pure and simple ways.
In Poem on Self-Dwelling, he describes making the entire city of Luoyang his home, treating others with utmost sincerity and without pretense. Though worldly honors fade before his eyes and white hair marks the passage of time, his heart forever retains a realm as vibrant as flowers blooming through the four seasons.
Poem on Human Conduct speaks of the way of living in society: One must harmonize with others, just as the clans of Emperor Shun and Emperor Yao did. Discord in the heart is a sickness; only through harmony in action can peace prevail under heaven. The heart governs the body, and the limbs must follow its guidance.
Poem on the Primordial explores the question of the "primordial" (the origin of the cosmos): Who can fathom the primordial Dao? Beyond the relationships of ruler and subject, father and child, lies a higher realm. People only grasp superficial skills but neglect the inner work of cultivating the heart. Heaven, earth, and the human body all follow the principles of the Yi Jing (Book of Changes), no different from the truths known in the time of Fu Xi.
Poem on Central Harmony emphasizes the importance of "central harmony" (balance and harmony): Human nature is inherently unremarkable; the key lies in understanding the way of harmony. With fewer calculations in the heart, worldly affairs naturally diminish. Like rain after a long drought or medicine curing a chronic illness, if one cannot grasp even a single truth, how can they comprehend the principles of all things?
Poem on the Four Worthies praises four Luoyang sages: Fu Bi (Yanguo) spoke with thoroughness, Lü Gongzhu (Huishu) with conciseness, Sima Guang (Junshi) with composure, and Cheng Hao (Bochun) with clarity. During the Xining era (under Emperor Shenzong), they stood as outstanding figures of their time.
Poem on Old Age reflects on the mindset of later years: The passage of time no longer stirs the heart, yet old friends understand with clearer eyes. Often sitting in stillness beneath the bright moon, he does not drown sorrows in wine. Without awakening in the heart, even old age feels like youth. Whom to seek as companions? Better to drift freely on rivers and lakes.
Poem on Heaven and Earth discusses the relationship between heaven and humanity: Between heaven and humanity, not the slightest error is permitted, yet truth need not be sought afar. Misfortune burns fiercer the longer it flares, while kindness flows deeper the more it spreads. Like a soldier longing for home or drought-stricken folk praying for rain, the shift between fortune and calamity is as swift as turning a palm.
These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection primarily express the author's reflections on life, virtue, and nature.
The first poem states: Humans are inherently the most spiritual of all creatures, with sages being the finest among them. As steadfast as unyielding stone, even a full day's contemplation cannot exhaust the truth. If one could perceive omens beforehand, why worry about failing to commune with the divine? Without resolute determination, good deeds cannot be accomplished—one must possess both wisdom and a pure, genuine nature. Before fortune or misfortune arrives, there are always signs; these are not predetermined by heaven and earth but depend on the individual themselves.
The second poem uses jade as a metaphor for people: Fine jade does not proclaim its own value—it is humans who ascribe worth to it. People treasure jade's purity, just as they admire consistently unblemished qualities. Jade is mined from raw ore and only becomes an artifact after carving, a process mirroring human self-cultivation. Though the ancients have passed away, the principle of "wearing coarse cloth while harboring jade" (plain appearance concealing inner beauty) remains valid today.
The third poem satirizes worldly ways: Suspicious people constantly doubt others, making deception seem ubiquitous. If one refuses to believe in sincerity, human interactions become nothing but falsehood.
The fourth poem, about drinking wine: Frequently sipping fine wine in small amounts, using it instead of tea to nourish one's innate nature. Prolonged drought threatens famine, and city life offers no better existence. Though dwelling in rural seclusion, one still worries about state affairs, leaving household matters to descendants. Asking what progress old age has brought—only to see more white hairs in the mirror.
The fifth poem discusses the unity of heaven and humanity: All things possess sound, color, and scent, while humans have ears, eyes, and noses to perceive them. In truth, the human body inherently contains the complete capacity to experience all things—turning inward reveals this principle.
Subsequent poems depict garden scenery: The newly built small garden follows the land's contours, with high hills and low depressions. These privileged views beyond Luoyang's walls draw visitors undeterred by distance. The scenery rivals celestial realms, lacking only the precious medicinal ingredient "purple river cart" (ziheche).
The pavilion named "Wilderness Studio" stands far from worldly dust, accompanied by cooling breezes from Mount Song. Here, the sun, moon, and seasons all belong to oneself—why seek the gourd's mystical paradise?
"Stained Pavilion" alludes to Xu You's ear-washing parable: Rather than performing such ostentatious purity like Xu You, better to remain unperturbed from the start. Achieving this transcendent state makes worldly disturbances powerless to intrude.
"Herbal Gallery" observes: Deep mountains conceal countless unknown medicinal herbs, which the owner transplants and names. If they can truly cure human ailments, why not let these crimson and purple remedies grow by the eaves?
The newly constructed "Twilight Pavilion" soars into the clouds—how precious to capture dusk's lingering beauty. Recent springtime visitors passing by all inquire about this pavilion's owner.
These passages from Yichuan Jirang Ji depict natural phenomena and reflections on life. Let me explain them section by section:
On natural phenomena:
The rain formed by water is a fine drizzle, by fire it's like dewdrops—light and ethereal, by earth it's a misty rain, and by stone it becomes hail. The wind brought by water is cool, by fire it's scorching, by earth it's gentle, and by stone it's biting cold. Clouds formed by water appear black, by fire they're red, by earth yellow, and by stone white., fire thunder is fierce, earth thunder continuous, and stone thunder strikes like lightning.
"Daytime Nap" discusses the art of afternoon rest:
Mastering the midday nap isn't easy—one must follow nature like the ancient Fu Xi. With a mind free of concerns, take a stroll in the garden after a meal. Before noon arrives, the oriole in the courtyard tree has sung repeatedly, while visitors on the flower-lined path are few. Observing the many troubled souls in this world, though my pillow and mat are cool, I'm spared their worries.
"Advance and Retreat Verse" on life attitude:
Advancing and retreating are both natural in life—why argue bitterly over wine? When sitting quietly with bowed head, contemplate all things; when swinging your sleeves to depart, pay no mind to others. With teeth and hair aged, youth is long past—only dwelling among mountain forests and spring rocks brings lasting peace. Do people understand the realm of Wuwei (non-action)? In this state, neither favor nor disgrace can disturb body and mind.
"Traveler's Verses" in four parts recall journeys:
Suddenly I remember my days as a traveler in southern Qin—looking east from Luoyang across the Qin plains. Two thousand li of cloud-wrapped mountains separate us, nineteen years have passed since then. The willow hues must still sway gracefully, the river's voice surely murmurs as before. If this aged body could return, the sentiments of old have already faded away.
I recall too my travels in eastern coastal regions, where youthful ambitions first shone by waters and clouds. Islanders dwell in remote borderlands, tides bringing maritime merchants with the surf. Lying, I watched the vast sea encircling the land; sitting, I saw the red sun rise from Fusang. How many waste their lives in vain? But the title of "true man" isn't lightly earned.
Memories return of my Wu region travels, when high-spirited I delighted in company. Never did I pause casually while mountain-climbing, nor easily cease when drinking. Ten thousand lotus fragrances wafted through Chu lands, one sail sped me downriver to Yangzhou. Recalling it now seems like a Handan dream—thirty springs and autumns gone in a blink.
Lastly I remember my Taiyuan sojourn, drinking through autumn without returning home. Distant peaks and nearby waters became regrets, high towers and slanting sunlight turned to sorrow. In youth I'd grieve at blossoms blooming and falling; now aged in Luoyang city, such melancholy no longer touches me.
"Nurturing Life Verse" on cultivation:
Clenching fists should be natural as an infant's, moving Qi like a warrior's strength—neither forced, both requiring long practice. The heart commands the body, the will marshals primordial Qi. Let your Shen (spirit) settle like a pearl sinking into deep waters.
Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) composed these poems during illness, expressing his contemplation on life and heavenly mandate.
"In Sickness" depicts his three-month confinement, during which friends in Luoyang treated him as family—not only sincerely recommending skilled physicians but diligently seeking remedies. He wonders when he might visit these benefactors to express gratitude.
"Grave Illness" reveals the recluse who enjoyed fifty carefree years suddenly stricken. Bedridden for nearly a hundred days through midsummer, when acupuncture and herbal decoctions proved futile, he entrusted his life to heavenly mandate (tianming), finding unexpected serenity.
"Heaven and Humanity" unveils his philosophy: the human form is bestowed by heaven; when human effort exhausts, heaven's will prevails. Heaven and humanity are fundamentally one—the slightest distinction makes them two.
"Critical Condition" states plainly: those fated to live won't perish despite severe illness; those whose time has come cannot be saved by divine physicians. Beyond submitting to heaven's decree, all other calculations prove vain.
"Hearing Heaven" embodies complete equanimity: life comes as heaven's gift, death returns to heaven—what objection could there be in wholly following heaven's arrangement?
"Attaining Unity" expounds the "harmony of heaven and humanity" (tianren heyi): heaven maintains its natural essence (attaining unity), while humans receive heavenly nature to live. Since heaven and humanity share one essence, how could he differ from heaven?
"Answering a Visitor" shows the world valuing gold while he cherishes poetry alone. Seeing through life, death, and worldly concerns, though knowing his illness incurable, he accepts moxibustion treatment merely to comfort caring friends.
"Final Illness" captures his dying serenity: born in peaceful times, raised in peaceful times, aging and dying in peaceful times. Sixty-seven years between heaven and earth leave no trace of regret in his heart.
These poems collectively manifest Shao Yong's transcendent attitude toward illness and death, blending Confucian contentment in poverty with Daoist harmony with nature (ziran). Through plain language, they articulate the profound philosophy of "heaven-humanity unity" (tianren heyi).
Source text: Kanripo 漢籍リポジトリ（KR5d0065）; Licence: CC BY-SA 4.0 · Report an error / feedback