《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 20

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) repeatedly chants the theme of "I do not particularly favor writing poetry" in his Yichuan Jirang Ji, expressing insights from his reclusive life. This Northern Song Dynasty Confucian scholar dwelled in his "Haven of Peace and Joy" (his hermitage's name), channeling his sentiments through observing nature and contemplating history.

He reflects on the achievements of ancient sages: Emperor Yao harmonized the movements of the sun, moon, and stars, while Yu the Great tamed the floods of the Yangtze, Yellow, Huai, and Ji rivers. Though rulers and ministers throughout history have been judged by posterity, few have truly appreciated the beauty of wind and moon. In his seclusion, Shao Yong perceived the patterns of cosmic operation—the ceaseless cycling of Yin and Yang (Liangyi), the alternation of seasons governing all things, and the perpetual emergence of the new from the old.

He reveled in this leisurely existence: composing poetry while half-drunk beneath the moon and blossoms, using verse as letters to distant friends and family. Like paired fish frolicking in a pond or a lone wild goose soaring across the sky, all beings flourish in their natural freedom. For him, poetry was a means to express true disposition—just as a clear mirror cannot retain a strand of hair, or a swift blade cannot sever flowing water, genuine insights defy complete articulation.

During sleepless nights, Shao Yong savored the fragrance of orchids while compiling over three thousand poems accumulated across twenty years. Through these verses, he recorded his observations on the rise and fall of eras, believing that the transformations of heaven and earth must be revealed, and virtuous governance must be enacted. Many matters right before people’s eyes go unexamined—thus, he sought to awaken the world through poetry.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) said his poetry was never deliberately composed. These verses flowed naturally from his spontaneous realizations.

The first passage describes his advanced age yet undiminished spirit, savoring a life of leisure. Dwelling by bamboo groves and waterways, watching orioles flit among blossoms, embracing moonlight while feeling gentle breezes. In such serene contentment, poetry arose effortlessly.

The second section captures his epiphany while standing at Tianjin Bridge (a Luoyang landmark). The river's murmur remains unchanged through millennia, while mountains stand in silent attendance. Observing a lone wild goose piercing the clear sky, an egret skimming willow branches—such vistas expanded his heart-mind, birthing spontaneous verse.

The third passage depicts Shangyang Palace's scenery in Luoyang (Tang dynasty imperial grounds). Emerald orioles among blossoms, crisp winds under moonlight, gazing at Phoenix Tower emerging from distant clouds—as if glimpsing the gardens of Dao and De (Virtue) in a dream. The peaceful era compelled him to chant poetry.

At sixty, his fourth realization emerged. He confessed to observing all phenomena through poetry, yet his words inadvertently revealed celestial secrets. With few carriages disturbing his wooded retreat, he drank wine transcending worldly concerns. Sixty-one years of tranquil existence yielded verses flowing like springwater.

The fifth segment discusses life philosophy. Leisure reveals all things' true nature; illness teaches medicinal properties. Forced endeavors fail, while misjudging character invites deception. As with governing states, these insights transformed into poetry.

The sixth reveals the difficulty of understanding people. Initial closeness may resemble father-son bonds, yet sudden estrangement turns strangers into barbarians. If present success remains unclear, how fathom the world's safety? Such human truths became verse.

The finale extols contentment. Before dawn, gazing at celestial vaults; spring sacrifices to ancient sage-kings. Pouring his own wine, idly tapping chess pieces—even the legendary Shao and Huo music paled beside such joy. These feelings naturally crystallized as poetry.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) did not write poetry simply out of personal fondness for verse. He composed poems to motivate himself. He believed that to truly comprehend the Dao (the Way), one must follow a teacher's guidance; to transcend worldly affairs, one must rely on innate talent. He revered virtuous scholars, fearing he might recognize them too late; he delighted in good deeds, yet worried about comprehending life's principles too slowly. Grateful for friends who frequently offered instruction, his poetry was never merely an indulgence.

Shao wrote poetry when experiencing life's triumphs. In moments of high spirits, he would often unconsciously dance with excitement, his brush flowing effortlessly with creative energy. Like the legendary roc spreading its wings for the first flight toward the Southern Sea, or the immortal crane returning to Liaodong after millennia - how could mere verses contain such soaring emotions?

He also composed poetry to lament life's circumstances. While believing in destiny's predetermined course, he refused complete resignation; though recognizing heaven's will as difficult to oppose, he maintained human determination could prevail. His brilliant talents ironically became burdens, and his esteemed position trapped him in webs of interest. Watching spring depart yet again with helplessness, he turned to poetry for solace.

Poetry emerged when literary inspiration surged through him. His imagery could be vast as oceans capturing whales, or like submerged lands without water yet concealing dragons. The towering Hua Mountain rising five thousand ren, the expansive Huangpi Lake spanning a hundred thousand qing - all these magnificent scenes transformed into his verses.

More fundamentally, Shao recorded life's fleeting moments in poetry. Gentle sunlight in warm spring, crisp autumn days with wispy clouds. Breezes swaying willow branches, drizzles nourishing fragrant grasses. Often he would wander forests in his small carriage, lingering until reluctant to return.

Sometimes he wrote simply to test inkstones and brushes. Like uncut jade requiring appraisal, or true gold proving itself through refinement. Once ridiculed for his unconventional ways - now who are those shaking their heads in regret? The phoenix will eventually soar far away, all these realizations distilled into verse.

Ultimately, Shao Yong composed poetry to contemplate existence. Having penetrated the great matters of life and death, worldly honors and disgraces concerned him little. Whether pacing his hall or sitting quietly by water, he maintained crystalline clarity of mind. Poetry wasn't merely emotional expression - it became his method of self-cultivation and spiritual refinement.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) stated that he did not deliberately love writing poetry, but used verse to express his realization of the Dao. He believed that while the Dao of heaven is lofty and distant, its connection with the human heart is profoundly subtle. His poems depict nature's silent and effortless state—a realm free from jealousy or greed—so profound that even the most skilled painters could not capture its essence.

He wrote poetry to record the cyclical patterns of growth and decline in all things. Just as the new moon inevitably rises and fallen petals drift with flowing water, these are the natural rhythms of the world. The rise and fall of human affairs likewise follows cosmic principles, not formed in a single day. Gazing from a high pavilion, millennia of history appear as fleeting as mist, while the afterglow of sunset vanishes in an instant. The Yi and Luo Rivers seem slender as silk threads; the peaks of Mount Taishi and Mount Shaoshi sharp as awls—all worldly conflicts are but passing illusions.

In seclusion, he reflected on cherishing every moment and guarding against pride. When offering wine, he advocated modest sips, yet when composing poetry, he embraced grandeur. Through historical verse, he contemplated life, seeing the rise and fall of dynasties as a grand dream, the Central Plains mere pieces on a chessboard. The peace of the Yao-Shun era and the wars of the Tang-Wu period alike dissolved into the mists of history.

Facing fine wine, he examined himself: though his conduct held no great virtue, his character and deeds were widely known. Observing all phenomena, one must grasp their deeper meaning; writing demands literary brilliance. He emphasized poetry as the embodiment of one's heart and will. Approaching fifty, though choosing reclusion, he still pondered how to settle his remaining years.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) did not compose these poems out of particular fondness for verse, but rather to express his insights on life through poetry. Though dwelling in humble quarters, he found contentment; his body remained robust as he spent sixty-two years in leisurely repose. His verses reveal the Daoist wisdom of accepting circumstances with equanimity: minor achievements in fame and merit prove difficult to attain, while seemingly grand accomplishments come easily—for success and failure should never be overcontemplated.

He humorously compares writing poetry to tasks assigned to servants that inevitably go awry, suggesting it's better to follow nature's course than force perfection. Just as precious vessels require time to polish (great talent matures slowly), petty men make poor long-term companions. Life need not chase after rapid promotions (nine advancements in a day) or repeated demotions (three dismissals by noon). Why demand permanence from hibiscus flowers that bloom at dawn and fade by dusk?

The poems display a noble man's magnanimity: no regrets over major decisions, true character revealed in crisis, virtuous deeds performed with clear conscience. Born in China's peaceful golden age, he cherished his masculine form, understanding how fleeting fine days and fair scenes prove, how winds and rains shift unpredictably—thus he wasted no idle hours.

In later years, he realized good words could heal like medicine, and keeping virtuous company naturally dissolved cunning thoughts. Only by preserving one's innate nature could one remain unshaken by external things. Finally, alluding to Confucius (Zhongni) ceasing his brush after recording the capture of a qilin—an omen of cultural decline—he laments how after the Zhou dynasty's rites collapsed, the Spring and Autumn period witnessed nothing but senseless wars. His own poetry, he implies, merely records these epochal changes through subtle words bearing profound meaning.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) never deliberately composed poetry—these verses flowed naturally from his state of mind. Strolling through fragrant meadows, whose household wouldn't anticipate the passing of his small carriage? Encountering beautiful flowering branches, he'd pluck them unhurriedly; when wine cups brimmed full, he'd raise them cheerfully. Casting aside empty fame and transient gains, poetry would naturally emerge in such moments.

His verses weren't forced creations but spontaneous expressions of an abundant heart. Warm sunlight had just brushed the peach and plum branches when cool breezes turned to caress the lotus blossoms. Moonlight flowed like liquid gold, while snowflakes danced as lightly as willow catkins. Such leisurely joy could only be savored in times of great peace.

His poems bore witness to self-realized insights. Gathering emerald greens in dewy dawns crisp with wind, discovering novelty amidst majestic mountains and rivers. When depicting nature's essence, he emphasized spiritual resonance; when conveying human affairs, his words remained succinct. Those subtly profound moods worth savoring were precisely the natural manifestations of his poetic mind.

Sometimes during silent meditation, verses would quietly arise. Heaven's intent granted him tranquility for profound purposes, yet the stirring human heart often begins in unknowingness. Willow leaves in mist resembled faintly knitted brows, while dew-laden blossoms seemed to weep with bowed heads. Some might complain of his silence, unaware that poetry flowed within that stillness.

Gazing afar in late spring, poetry emerged with the scenery. Blossoms seen just now had already withered; spring's arrival barely announced became spring's departure. Where orioles sang, spring's essence lingered, yet when cuckoos came, all flowers had scattered. Flowers blooming with spring's coming and falling with its passing—this impermanence itself became poetry's source.

Venturing out in springtime, two or three orioles trilled through drizzling rain. Drinking freely among blossoms till mildly intoxicated, he'd return home in peaceful carriage rides. Dwelling in uneventful years of great peace, such leisure most readily stirred poetic inspiration.

In summer, hosting guests amid bamboo groves with fine wine, lakeside breezes brushed against them. Bright moonlight bathed the window lattice while lotus fragrance permeated sleeves, refreshing the heart. The greatest joy lay precisely in this carefree serenity—poetry naturally surfaced in such moments.

Autumn tower ascents brought gentle winds already sufficient for delight, with fragrant grasses by water not yet fully withered. The first chill made pausing footsteps most fitting—such unhurried scenes most easily awakened poetic stirrings.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) said he didn't particularly enjoy writing poetry—verse was simply his means of expressing inner feelings. He cared nothing for empty fame or clever stratagems, nor would he allow trivial matters to disturb his spirit. When drinking, he'd spontaneously compose upon sudden inspiration; seeing flowers bloom, he'd casually arrange a few branches. Even if others considered his behavior eccentric, he remained utterly unperturbed.

He wrote poetry not for show, but to record his genuine thoughts. He believed action must align with proper timing—acting too early or too late both miss the mark. Those glorious days hosting three thousand guests had now become mere dreams; the mountains and rivers remained unchanged while human affairs had transformed completely. Excessive cleverness often becomes its own undoing.

Through poetry, he contemplated life's meaning. Like Mencius pursuing the "unmoved heart," like Confucius valuing wordless understanding. Comprehending principle leads to harmony with the Dao (the Way); trusting heavenly mandate prevents defiance of heaven's will. For sixty-three years he lived in tranquil leisure, writing poetry simply as natural expression.

His verse also explicated the wisdom of the Yijing (Book of Changes). Just as fire within warms the household, wind without educates the people. Maturity forms fortune's foundation while childishness builds misfortune's ladder. Though these truths seem obvious, few truly understand them.

He recorded his realizations in poetry. Youthful events now seemed dreamlike, while old age passed swiftly. Joyful states of mind cannot be forced—why not cherish what comes to hand? Waiting for the Yellow River to run clear—but how many years does a human life contain?

He wrote to value time's passing. A thousand miles of wandering left no one to confide in; the imperial court's deep palaces remained unknowable. Two years of understanding came too late, yet speaking after seven days wasn't delayed. A nation's stable foundation constitutes true statecraft.

His poetry captured those déjà vu insights. Writing characters or chanting verses both followed the heart's inclinations, requiring no forced effort. He composed not for poetry's sake, but as natural overflow of genuine feeling.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) said he never deliberately set out to write poetry—his verses were simply the natural overflow of his life's realizations. When his mind was clear and at leisure, he could clap his hands and spontaneously compose joyful lines. This happiness needed neither the support of power nor ornate rhetoric, much less the concealment of faults or venting anger at others.

In his creative attempts, he used poetry to penetrate the wisdom of life and death—understanding that a good death holds more value than mere survival, and that wisdom far surpasses ignorant confusion. Facing the pessimistic tears of Yang Zhu (Warring States philosopher) and the melancholy heart of Song Yu (Chu Ci poet), he chose poetry to respond to the west wind's mockery.

Recalling the past, he lamented how people only recognized talent without understanding life's hardships. Watching the setting sun gradually fade in autumn waters, the yellow leaves falling in the west wind moved him to tears—now all these reflections had transformed into poetic lines.

He advocated for a balanced approach to life: letting go when it's time to let go, and embracing joy where joy can be found. A wild and unrestrained nature often wins affection, yet one's true essence shouldn't be easily swayed by external things—only regretting that some truths are hard to put into words.

When experiencing the joy of nature, he captured the essence of heaven and earth through poetry, discerning the mysteries of spirits and deities. From the genuine delight of Tao Yuanming's style to unexpected flashes of insight, he ultimately believed poetry could unveil the profound workings of creation. In moments of melancholy, he also used verse to record the impermanence of the moon's waxing and waning, the blooming and fading of beautiful flowers, sighing that even the Soul-Returning Elixir (Daoist alchemical medicine) and Life-Prolonging Decoction could not defy fate.

As spring drew to a close, he observed through poetry the departure of falling blossoms and the heartlessness of flowing water. The urgent calls of orioles bearing messages, the soft murmurs of swallows pleading grievances—all these natural sounds became mediums for his reflections on life.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) did not write poetry merely for the sake of writing poetry. When autumn's end approached at Tianjin Bridge (a scenic spot in Luoyang), familiar landscapes ceased to astonish, and though new sights abounded, he found no kindred spirits for heartfelt conversation. With clouds pale and mountains distant, dew heavy and grass withered, he found solace only in pouring wine for himself—these poems were but natural outpourings of his state of mind.

He wrote not to follow literary fashion, but to record life's insights. Though his official career could not rival that of the Grand Historian (Sima Qian), his writings aspired to Confucius' standard. In reclusion, he matched Tao Yuanming; in finding kindred souls, he equaled Zhong Ziqi. So long as virtue (De) was not solitary, the great Dao was present within.

Strolling through gardens gazing afar, he saw the capital's towers piercing the clouds. Morning and evening weather shifted unpredictably; human relationships gathered and scattered like mist. When he asked why distant mountains remained eternally silent, he could only transmute his thoughts into verse.

Observing his vegetable garden in early spring, he saw lush greens thriving while old roots clung stubbornly to life by autumn's end. Leeks and garlic spread across the ridges; taro and ginger greened the plots. Each season's turning held its marvels—all became inspiration for poetry.

Examining life's principles, he discovered paternal love might transform into resentment, marital harmony breed discord. Joy at its extreme resembled sorrow—such was the nature of all worldly affairs.

Reflecting on time's passage, he lamented the Western Jin's vanity and the Southern Liang's empty rhetoric. Confucius left Lu not lightly; Mencius bade farewell to Qi out of necessity. When phoenixes failed to appear, men had already aged—such reflections crystallized into poetry.

Content in simplicity, he recognized most cheerful talk as hollow—to whom could true words be spoken? Children tended his fields; his elderly wife prepared food and wine. If worldly troubles existed, they were but self-inflicted vexations.

Drinking alone in mild intoxication, he progressed from one cup to three, composing from five themes to ten. Seeing through human affairs as child's play, only drunken verses revealed his authentic self.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) repeatedly emphasized that he never deliberately set out to compose poetry—these verses simply captured his authentic reflections during different phases of life. In his youth, leaning on bamboo and wooden staffs, he wandered freely between southern and northern gardens, drinking wine and admiring blossoms while remaining detached from worldly affairs. For sixty-four years he lived with unfettered ease, making joy his life's pursuit and serenity the foundation of his existence.

Through poetry, he documented his contemplations: expressing admiration for the profound intentions of sages alongside insights gained from the philosophy of the Yi Jing (Classic of Changes). His verses reference the cosmic principles of the Bagua (Eight Trigrams) and the Three Powers (heaven-earth-humanity), demonstrating how the waxing and waning of Yin-Yang, movement and stillness, fortune and misfortune all find explanation within Yi studies. He maintained that the great Dao is supremely simple—heaven and earth give birth to all things without partiality, yet even sages cannot fully articulate its mysteries.

These poetic works serve both as life lessons—warning how shallow intentions lead to confusion, and how good and evil inevitably meet their retribution—and as meditations on the Yi Jing. They were tools not merely for discerning fortune and misfortune, but more profoundly for marveling at the subtle wonders of natural law. Observing celestial patterns through the cycle of seasons, Shao Yong ultimately attained the transcendent state of "making joy the heart's endeavor, and serenity the pivot of the Dao."

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) repeatedly emphasized that he did not deliberately compose poetry, but rather used it to express his genuine inner feelings and life insights.

The first passage depicts the bleak winter scenery: the sky is gloomy, dark clouds loom, willow branches droop, leaves have all fallen, birds remain scattered, and few travelers walk the road. Faced with this passage of time, he cannot help but pour out his emotions through poetry.

The second passage explains the reason for writing poetry: it is his most natural way of expressing his inner self. All things follow their own principles, just as Heaven and Earth do not speak yet humans speak for them—so too does he use poetry to convey the boundless meaning within the universe.

The third passage clarifies his attitude toward poetry: his verses are not mere wordplay but contain great wisdom. Like playing chess without petty schemes or handling affairs without nitpicking, one should leave room in all things when dealing with life.

The fourth passage describes the joyful state of mind when composing poetry: when his heart is full of happiness, he naturally expresses it through verse. Speaking his mind truthfully, he neither fears others’ doubts nor feels the need to conceal anything.

The fifth passage conveys his philosophy of finding contentment in simplicity: his poetry reveals his transcendent foresight. When the heart is fulfilled, poverty brings joy; when humbled by circumstance, what meaning does wealth hold? Even in old age, he greets spring with a youthful spirit.

The sixth passage reflects his concern over societal trends: his poetry voices his sorrow over corrupt customs. Most people are driven by profit, yet only in hardship can one’s integrity be seen. He refuses to rely on clever words and flattery to make a living.

The seventh and eighth passages use the moon to express life’s reflections: the moon stirs both joy and sorrow in him. He loves its pure radiance, yet laments its waxing and waning—just as life inevitably carries regrets. Even the immortal maidens of the moon (Qingnü and Su’e) must surely have their own sorrows.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) never intentionally set out to compose poetry. His verses flowed naturally from the rhythms of his daily life. On those sleepless nights when he tossed beneath the covers, he would wrap himself in robes and sit alone contemplating how, though life and death are fated, one can find peace through self-cultivation—only by maintaining inner tranquility, undisturbed by external things, could one attain such realization.

When visiting friends who happened to be absent, he observed vermilion gates bathed in slanting sunlight, heard cuckoos calling in late spring, and in his solitary comings and goings, what he wrote were not deliberately crafted poems but spontaneous expressions of present-moment awareness. Wandering at leisure, he encountered blooming flowers before ancestral halls, willows draping over the banks of Wei princes' ponds—watching water flow into the distance, lingering in gardens until he forgot to return, even the clear breeze filled him with fond attachment. These effortless moments of natural perception all transformed into verse.

In deep contemplation, he realized that while foresight may prevent regret, only utmost sincerity can foreknow the future. Human hearts may deceive, but the Dao of Heaven cannot be deceived—yet people remain confused between what's difficult and easy. Among friends, he always treated others with genuine kindness, speaking gently, aspiring to that state of sharing joy and sorrow with all things. How could he spare energy for petty disputes? To his eyes, Heaven, Earth and humanity were fundamentally one.

Though never holding office, he understood worldly affairs profoundly. The fine days of spring and autumn became his times of carefree wandering, yet he lamented how the great Dao lies plainly before us while people fail to see it. In later years, he often mingled with recluses, wearing Daoist robes, comparing worthy men to stars while remaining as unconstrained as a wild deer. For sixty-five years he lived as a man of no affairs—even past events in dreams grew faint—yet having experienced life and death, he maintained crystal-clear awareness. None of this was intentional poetry-making, but simply the natural expression of his being.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) did not compose these poems out of particular fondness for verse, but rather to record his contemplations. He observed: When worldly affairs grow complex, human hearts become easily contented; yet when illness takes hold, even the medicine of Daoist cultivation proves difficult to administer. In youth one ought to consider matters thoroughly, and in times of peace never forget potential crises. The Dao of heaven shines bright and clear—it is people themselves who remain benighted.

His poetry served to document his approach to life: When handling government affairs, he invariably devoted full effort, yet recognized that matters involving others could not be forced. If others wronged him, he saw no need for reckoning; if he owed others, he naturally assumed responsibility. Reproaching others paled beside examining oneself.

These verses also became his method of self-reflection: To see righteousness yet not act reveals cowardice, though fortunately errors inevitably come to light. A dirty floor may still be swept, but the weeds in one's heart-field cannot be concealed. The rarest virtue lies in humbly accepting admonishment.

In contemplating human nature, though he dared not compare himself to sages, his joyful acceptance of destiny remained unquestionable. Only with expansive vision could one move through life with ease; only through serene composure did magnanimity manifest. Such contented tranquility defied description.

Reading history, he discerned the patterns of order and chaos in classical texts, penetrating the principles of safety and danger through canonical works. Fuxi (one of the Three Sovereigns of antiquity) could serve as sovereign of heaven, earth and humanity, while Confucius deserved recognition as teacher for ten thousand generations. These were not merely ancient sayings, but actionable models for emulation.

Roaming through nature, he wandered across moonlit meadows of tender grass, observed pale clouds filtering sunlight west of Shangyang Palace. The willows and blossoms deep in Bronze Camel Lane, the gentle breezes and orioles' songs in Golden Valley Garden—all became nourishment for his cultivated spirit.

Commenting on history, he perceived the Seven Warring States contending like arrows hitting their mark, the Nine Provinces shifting like chessboard configurations. Rulers became fugitive lords of their own making, while generals and ministers often proved no better than marketplace ruffians. Even the evolution from seal script to cursive writing appeared to him as the natural course of things.

Strolling at leisure, he wandered according to his heart's inclination, lodging his insights on heaven, earth and human life within poetry. These compositions were not deliberate creations, but spontaneous overflow from his attained state of being.

(These poems from Shao Yong's [styled Yaofu] "Yichuan Jirang Collection" of the Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian school begin with the line "It's not that Yaofu loves composing verse," expressing his philosophy of life.)

It's not that I'm particularly fond of writing poetry—these lines are all insights gained through adversity. Only when circumstances reach their extreme can one perceive the profound mystery of the Dao; only when human relationships become utterly indifferent can one comprehend Heaven's workings. Just as filial piety and fraternal love may not show immediate results, one must wait for winter's harshness to know the pine and cypress's enduring verdure. Were it not for unyielding stone, how could we hear of steadfast resolve being altered?

It's not that I'm particularly fond of writing poetry—these words record my contemplations in times of hardship. Since I firmly believe in the Dao and practice it, why should I harbor regrets? Beyond joyful acceptance of Heaven's decree, I seek nothing more. Even as Duke of Zhou's loyalty became apparent only when faced with suspicion, and Confucius' greatness manifested through adversity—if even sages cannot avoid trials, how much less can I?

It's not that I'm particularly fond of writing poetry—each time I take up the brush, it's with resignation. Before my eyes, honor and disgrace alternate; within my heart, right and wrong blur. Behold the Shangyang Palace reduced to broken walls, the Golden Valley Garden left with only setting sun. Were Heaven able to speak, perhaps it could resolve these doubts.

It's not that I'm particularly fond of writing poetry—these words are sighs after penetrating worldly principles. Only by conforming to circumstances does one accord with the patterns of all things; where the heart finds peace, there lies Heaven's mechanism. Even hardness like metal and stone can still be transformed, while the fluidity of spirits and ghosts ultimately cannot deceive. Beyond this, the great Dao fundamentally has no words to express.

It's not that I'm particularly fond of writing poetry—at times I mock the world's incomprehension. The vast movements of celestial timing can still be fathomed, yet trivial human affairs prove harder to predict. The beautiful jade of Kunlun Mountain goes unrecognized; the bright pearls of deep seas remain unappreciated. Thus I console myself with self-mockery.

It's not that I'm particularly fond of writing poetry—these are reflections during solitary vigilance. A human life barely spans a century, yet the will can roam ten thousand miles. In planning affairs, seek only a clear conscience; in conducting matters, harbor no wishful thinking. Such sincerity would inspire awe even in spirits and ghosts.

It's not that I'm particularly fond of writing poetry—these are lessons learned from assessing situations. At the outset of any endeavor, clearly discern its feasibility; in human interactions, determine safety and danger beforehand. Loyal and trustworthy people across regions all aspire to goodness, while treacherous individuals throughout ages invariably covet selfish gain. What need is there for comparative verification of such principles?

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) did not write poetry merely for the sake of versification—his poems served as records of life's profound realizations. The first poem conveys: The cyclical Dao (the Way) operates like bellows expanding and contracting, while the sage's words prove as divinely accurate as turtle shells and milfoil stalks used for fortune-telling. Time's relentless flow cannot be reversed, and medicine offers scant remedy for aging's decline. Rather than gazing at sunset with melancholy, I compose poetry to document these existential insights.

The second poem reveals: Verse serves as my memento mori. People readily believe falsehoods yet doubt truths. Just as Zengzi's transmitted words could be distorted, even Confucius faced slander. The bonds between father and son, ruler and subject—none escape imperfection. I write to contemplate these fundamental principles.

The third poem reflects: Each book's closing inspires poetic expression. Observing events unfolding like the "Returning Maiden" hexagram (symbolizing completion) in the Yi Jing (Book of Changes), I simultaneously dread descending into the "Darkening Light" hexagram (representing obscured brilliance). The golden ages of Xia and Shang dynasties have vanished beyond sight, while Han and Tang's declines pain recollection. Though dwelling in rural fields, my concern for the realm persists—poetry voices this enduring preoccupation.

The fourth poem declares: Verse springs from cosmic affection. Understanding truth liberates the mind, elevating speech beyond worldly conventions. Majestic landscapes invariably nurture extraordinary talents, as heaven-earth's quintessence (Jing) finds its destined vessel. Only pristine Qi (vital energy) begets purity—my poetry hymns this immaculate essence.

The fifth poem describes: Poetry crystallizes silent contemplation. Sun and moon trace perpetual cycles while gardens flourish and fade. Mountains reveal relative heights, yet waters conceal unfathomable depths. The Dao's mysteries remain inexhaustible—verse becomes my vessel for exploration.

The sixth poem asserts: Poetry serves as self-examination. Only lived experience breeds conviction; human nature requires temporal unfolding to comprehend. Though sharing heaven's dew, mugwort and pine express divergent forms. Secondhand knowledge pales against direct encounter—my poems archive these embodied truths.

The seventh poem laments: Verse arises from societal sorrow. Habitual deception has poisoned the world with suspicion. The ceremonial deference at banquets mirrors the ruthless competition on chessboards—both being games differing only in scale. Poetry becomes my medium for cultural diagnosis.

The eighth poem articulates: Verse manifests cosmic order. Chaotic governance isn't antiquity's exclusive flaw—when shall we witness perfected penal systems? Historical precedents like the case of Shaozheng Mao (Spring-Autumn period official)... [original text fragmentary—translation suspended]

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) did not write poetry merely for the sake of versification. His poems were expressions of his innermost truths. To live without regret, one must understand the chain of cause and effect. Speak with sincerity, act with wholehearted devotion, and practice virtue without concern for others' comprehension—for external circumstances are inherently unpredictable.

When Shao Yong composed poetry to remember his mother, he reflected how both humility and contention belong to the past, just as the transition between old and new can never be neatly demarcated. The rules established by Fuxi, the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun; the laws instituted by Tang of Shang, Wu of Zhou, Duke Huan of Qi, and Duke Wen of Jin—all would ultimately be rewritten by history.

Asked about his daily activities, Shao Yong replied: When drowsy, he napped by the window; when inspired, he expressed his feelings by the pond. He pushed his cart to admire flowers, then took up his brush to record poetic lines. Polishing verses in leisure—this was his life.

In his later years, his poems depicted: appraising antique jades with old friends, sharing simple meals with his wife. Drinking homemade rice wine from earthenware bowls, sketching chessboards on the ground for matches. Sixty-six years of tranquil existence became his self-portrait.

During quiet contemplation, his verses confessed: too indolent to distinguish between sovereign and minister herbs (TCM formulation principles), too weary to adjust the civil and martial strings (guqin tuning terminology). No longer watching dragon-tiger encounters in the alchemical cauldron (Neidan practice), nor keeping score in chess games. For excessive attachment, he realized, damages one's innate nature.

In moments of camaraderie, he wrote: A man of state exhausts his sincerity in friendship, while mountain elders know how to delight me. Drinking measured cups according to capacity, shifting our seats with the moving flower shadows—such rare joy deserves recording.

Witnessing worldly changes, he lamented: Morning clouds and evening rain vanish in an instant; spring blossoms and autumn leaves display fleeting splendor. Contemporary affairs already invite sighs, yet human fickleness provokes deeper melancholy. Why must cold and heat alternate with such haste?

Shao Yong's poetry ultimately documented life's myriad realizations. Whether solitary reflection, convivial pleasure, or melancholy before life's transience—all flowed naturally into his verses. These poems were never forced compositions, but organic traces of a life fully lived.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) said he never deliberately sought to compose poetry—his verses were simply the natural outpouring of his lived experience. Writing short poems at dawn flowed freely without constraint, while calligraphy in large characters followed the heart's whim. He admired both the divine resonance in Li Bai and Du Fu's poetry and the novel styles of Ouyang Xiu and Wang Yucheng. For him, poetry was an elegant pastime in leisure, never a forced pursuit.

He wrote to record life's insights. When actions align with righteousness (Dao), why waste words explaining? Struggling with thorny matters drains energy, while following nature's course brings ease. Many worldly affairs grow more conspicuous the harder one tries to conceal them—facing them openly proves wiser.

Observing all things reveals their subtle marvels; interacting with others unveils nuanced shifts. These mysteries dwell plainly before our eyes and within our hearts—wisdom no money can buy. The finest poems emerge when least forced, and knowing when to stop marks true foresight. Beauty surrounds us here and now; level paths crisscross the world, yet people often spurn the effortless way.

His poetry sprang naturally from grasping life's truths—a realm beyond words, only to be sensed with joyful intuition. The Daoist adept's bearing shines through unhurried leisure; heaven's patterns (Tian Dao) reveal themselves in stillness, without retreating to mountain seclusion.

Age lent his verses deeper composure. As a scholar, he discussed benevolence (Ren) and virtue (De) with transparent integrity, confronting worldly affairs unflinchingly, seldom vexed by trivialities. Sixty-seven years of detachment found voice in poetry. Loose teeth whispered of time's passage; dim eyes reunited with old friends—though gatherings grew quieter and wine tolerance waned, his serene disposition remained unshaken.

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) did not write poetry out of mere personal fondness—his verses flowed naturally during moments of deep contemplation. To pursue empty fame by straying from the Dao (the Way) is to lose even that fame; to indulge desires by pandering to the masses is to let those desires destroy oneself. Those who claim to be virtuous must accept admonishment, while petty minds invariably conceal their faults. The most treacherous often appear loyal, and Shao Yong's poetry serves precisely as a warning against such deceptions.

His compositions were not driven by hobby but emerged as spontaneous outpourings of inner turmoil. Transforming pent-up emotions into verse allowed him to prevent resentment from festering into hatred, while avoiding the calamities that blunt speech might invite. Just as one should gather fragrant herbs and fine jade when encountered, so too must genuine insights be treasured. In such moments, Shao Yong found quiet celebration—his poetry stands as a record of this very state of mind.

At heart, Shao Yong's verses were acts of remorseful self-reflection. Though revered by contemporaries, he felt he had contributed too little to the world. When exhaustive effort still seemed inadequate, poetry became his solace. People marveled at the uniqueness of his expression, unaware that this very sense of inadequacy fueled his creativity.

Shao Yong's poetry resembles a sword requiring endless tempering—only through rigorous honing does its brilliance emerge. His lines admonish: neither provoke calamities coiled like serpents or wild boars, nor be beguiled by slanderous whispers as cunning as hares and foxes. These words, forged through years of refinement, hold the same value as a meticulously preserved blade.