《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 3

The Yichuan Jirang Ji is a poetry collection by Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu). Here we've selected several poems reflecting his reclusive life in later years.

In Congratulating a Friend's Retirement, he celebrates a companion's return from official life: Most people crave official glory, but how could true understanding ever be bound by office? Resigning the seal isn't about meager salary, nor is retirement solely due to advanced age. Observing nature's cycles of growth and decay, he apprehends the Dao's mysterious workings, thus freeing his heart to enjoy tranquil scenery—especially with fine mountains and springs awaiting at home.

Early Autumn captures seasonal transition: Summer departs yet heat lingers; only after rain does coolness emerge. Water already flows before the steps, while thunder still echoes beyond the sky. Meditating by a quiet desk, he idly gazes through open gates. Former ambitions all released—what remains to strive for?

Random Thoughts offers life reflections: Laughable yet lamentable—how should one live? Better transform countless worries into song. Worldly affairs shift like flipping palms; time fleets like rapids. True flavor comes through stillness—what's gained is already enough.

Injured Foot records convalescence: Misfortune arrives without cause, though thankfully slight. Immobile days bring greatest fear—distressing loved ones. Sudden walking difficulty postpones mountain climbs; a month's recovery precedes outings, yet Yuezheng's Admonitions stay unforgettable.

Leisurely Stroll depicts autumn wandering: Gardens grow sparse as he walks waterside, composing verse. Cool wind stirs post-festival fields; leaves fall before frost comes. Fading grass mirrors slanting sun; evening clouds cradle distant skies. When shall we see true form? Now only silent understanding remains.

Morning Rising presents dawn scenes: High mountains, deep waters—unchanged reality. Earth displays transient views; Heaven opens eternal embrace. Mist veils morning pavilions; drizzle dusts green woods. Such plain scenery proves rare in human realms.

Moonlit Night paints autumn evening: Rain-cleared breeze brings no chill despite deep autumn. Moving his bed below steps, he watches moon climb treetops. Wine invites sharing, yet no kindred spirit appears. Should worthy friends come later, such beauty may never return.

Pond in a Basin finds joy in miniature: Three-five small lotus blooms, scant water in the vessel. Not quite lakes or marshes, yet ripples still appear. Capturing rivers-and-lakes essence, though lacking ducks or egrets. The hermit's delight unrestrained—often circling drunk with chanted verse.

Two Mountain Excursions celebrates landscape pleasures: Luochuan boasts splendid peaks; Yichuan excels in bamboo groves. Each season offers unique wanderings—frequent visits never tire. Loving pure views harms no integrity; indulging stillness brings no shame. Deer won't wound human hearts; why should hearts wound deer?

These poems from The Yichuan Collection of Beating on the Ground express the author's yearning for a natural life and his transcendent attitude toward worldly fame and gain.

The first poem describes walking along the mountain path of Longmen, where the beauty of the peaks and mist makes one forget fatigue, and inner peace arises spontaneously. When the mind is focused, all worldly disturbances become irrelevant. People often say "having no affairs" (Wuwei) is most precious, but only those who truly achieve this state are genuinely detached.

The poem "On Natural Principles and Human Feelings" observes that the principles of things and human emotions are inherently clear—why worry about life's ups and downs? Life is like a scroll that can be rolled or unrolled; one must adapt flexibly to circumstances. The clouds and mountains before one's eyes are all sources of joy, and honor or disgrace need not be taken to heart. Though the gates of power are deep as the sea, for thirty years I have remained true to myself.

"The Chant of Fame and Profit" points out that chasing these ultimately brings no happiness, as treacherous winds and waves leave little room for peace. One should be content with modest praise and exercise restraint even when approaching the "pure joys" of simplicity. Excessive acclaim inevitably breeds disaster, while modest contentment brings freedom from worry. The world competes for fame and profit, yet fails to learn from the wreckage of those who came before.

"Reflections on Thirty Years" laments the flow of three decades, where the changes of the world provoke both laughter and sorrow. Heaven and Earth's cycles of creation and destruction never cease; rights and wrongs, gratitude and grudges never pause. Even loving mandarin ducks grow white-haired, while the mournful cuckoo weeps blood first. Great talent invites jealousy and calamity, yet lacking talent brings fresh sorrows.

In "Reply to a Reckless Talker," the author states that understanding natural principles has made his heart more serene, and contemplating Heaven's mind has refined his emotions. Though having reached Mencius's state of supreme joy, he has yet to attain the complete transcendence of Qu Boyu. Empty fame is like floating clouds—he'd rather grow old fishing and gathering firewood.

The final poems depict leisurely travels along the Luo River: Leaving the city gate southwestward, the open mountains and rivers refresh the spirit. Villages bask in mulberry-shaded twilight, autumn hues grace the fields—true joy exists among the people, why wait for noble titles? Dismounting by the Luo to play in its waters, he enjoys cloud-crowned peaks far from courtly bustle. Bamboo hues blend with mountain colors, pine voices harmonize with water sounds—wandering here all day, he's reluctant to depart.

These poems from The Collection of Striking Earthen Vessels at Yichuan depict natural landscapes and cultural scenes, expressing the poet's contemplation of nature's beauty and historical vicissitudes.

The first poem portrays a rustic mountain view: the hills resemble unfurled brocade curtains, while the river meanders through the plains where mulberry and paper-mulberry trees grow as tall as locusts. The setting sun casts its glow upon a rainbow, and low-hanging clouds bring rain. Faced with such boundless beauty, the poet laments his own lack of talent to fully capture it.

The second poem describes a scene by the stream: water flows past the gate, shrouded in mist. Rare birds sing atop towering trees, while wild deer dart through the undergrowth. Raindrops patter on the flat land, and distant rice fields encircle the village. With the city walls half-collapsed, the poet sighs at the impermanence of prosperity and decline.

The third poem was composed upon arriving at Fuchang County: though the clear scenery is beautiful, few appreciate it, requiring a long journey to truly find it. Only when nearing Mount Hanyue does one glimpse the depth of the Luo River. The county town lies nestled among cloud-wrapped mountains, its residents dwelling by water and bamboo. The poet feels like a wandering cloud or wild crane, all the more aware of how rare true companions are.

The fourth poem captures a moment at the Yan Hall: a few verdant peaks stand along the riverbank, while a bright stream winds through the woods. Drifting clouds shift unpredictably, and elusive birds remain nameless. The traveling companions were not prearranged, nor can the return date be fixed. The poet reflects that worldly trivialities need not be taken too seriously.

The fifth poem depicts viewing the southern mountains from an upper temple: layered peaks stretch westward to the Liang and Yong regions. Rather than trekking through the mountains, it is better to sit quietly and admire them. These peaks have witnessed the histories of the Han and Tang dynasties, enduring the changes of Jin and Han. The past is now beyond reach—only the mountains remain, steadfast as ever.

The sixth poem describes the lotus pond at the county captain’s office: before the modest study lies a clear pond where lotuses bloom. Here, one can not only admire the flowers but also listen to the murmuring water. It feels like a retreat by the rivers and lakes, far from worldly clamor. The poet marvels at the ingenuity of the ancients who designed this place.

The seventh poem speaks of the Nüji Shrine: to the southwest, a lofty mountain vanishes into the clouds, its immortals elusive. The thousand-year-old shrine faces the Luo River, though only the legend of the Rainbow and Feather Garment Dance still lingers.

The eighth poem reflects on the ruins of Lianchang Palace: the Luo River flows from the southwest, the Chang River from the northwest, and at their confluence, remnants of palace walls remain. Passersby can only imagine its former splendor—now, only Mount Nüji stands opposite the Three Villages Station.

The final poem expresses nostalgia: last autumn, the poet wandered by the Luo River’s source; this year, he returns to the Luo plains. Though the river flows heedless of human sorrow, the heart cannot help but grieve. Countless peaks are veiled in layers of mist, where the horizon merges with the sky. Farmers labor to harvest crops, while waterbirds forage leisurely—both seek sustenance, yet their movements differ so profoundly. From this, the poet grasps the truth of worldly change and the rise and fall of fortune.

These poems from The Collection of Yichuan Jirang depict natural landscapes and reflections on life, imbued with the Daoist transcendence of worldly concerns.

The first poem observes that the transformation of mountains and rivers follows natural patterns—today’s peaks may have been plains in the past, and today’s plains may have once been rivers. Since even the earth undergoes such changes, the vicissitudes of human affairs are hardly surprising. The poet rejoices in his ability to distance himself from the clamor of mundane life, free from worldly burdens.

The second poem portrays an expansive rural scene: distant thunder may signal a passing dragon, while shifting clouds bring rain across the mountains. Farmers return home carrying hoes, and fishermen come back with their nets. Only the poet remains alone, drenched by the rain, still on his journey—a subtle hint at the distinct way of life of a cultivator.

The third and fourth poems describe leisurely days spent escaping the summer heat in a lofty hall: cool breezes whisper through pines, clear springs flow beneath bamboo shade, accompanied by fine wine and fresh fruit. Reflecting on the stifling heat of the marketplace, he finds this retreat all the more refreshing and carefree. In quiet contemplation, the poet realizes: the Dao of Heaven may seem lenient, yet nothing escapes its order; the net of worldly affairs may be dense, yet one can transcend it. When the mind is no longer swayed by external things, both these constraints dissolve.

The fifth poem, written at the start of autumn, reflects on impermanence: wealth and honor, though desirable, are fleeting, while poverty breeds sorrow. One should not carry the recklessness of youth into old age. Since extraordinary joys are sought, one must also guard against unforeseen sorrows. Who can guarantee everlasting prestige?

The sixth poem explores the geography of Xiong’er Mountain: in the days of Yu the Great’s flood control, there were eastern and western peaks of Xiong’er, making it difficult to determine which was the true site recorded in the classics as the source of the Luo River.

The seventh poem marvels at the breathtaking majesty of Nüji Mountain: cliffs like crouching tigers, perilous rocks like battle banners, clouds unfurling, and the mountain’s form ever-shifting—a spectacle even the finest brush could scarcely capture.

The eighth poem gazes south toward Yichuan, evoking the past: the mountain bears traces of Yu’s excavations, the river holds remnants of Emperor Yao’s waterworks. Though the ancients are gone, their legacy remains, whispering that time passes swiftly, yet good and evil endure—there is no need to chase empty fame or force worldly recognition.

The final poem depicts the life of a shepherd boy: clad in a straw raincoat and bamboo hat, he preserves his natural simplicity. In warmth, he plays by abandoned city walls; in cold, he warms himself near ancient tombs. Playing his flute atop the ox, singing folk songs along the field paths, he has no mind for the affairs of court—a metaphor for the recluse’s detached way of life.

Through natural imagery and everyday scenes, these poems express the Daoist philosophy of harmonizing with nature and transcending worldly attachments. Their language is fresh and unadorned, yet their meaning resonates deeply.

These selected poems from The Collection of Striking Earthen Vessels from Yichuan reveal the author's profound insights into human life, nature, and worldly affairs.

The first segment explores the confusion between dreams and reality: in dreams, one may still remember dreaming, yet upon waking, that world is severed. Today's joys are fleeting as light and shadow, while past affections are lost to time. Where water flows, sound follows; when flowers fade, their colors vanish. Meeting again as strangers, it's as if they never knew each other.

The second depicts an autumn night: the nights grow longer, stars shimmer brilliantly, the courtyard dampened by light rain, the pillow and mat carrying a slight chill. Moonlight reveals all things without concealment, clear as a polished mirror; if the human heart could empty itself in stillness, truth would naturally come into view.

The third captures the ease after rain clears: sunlight filters through bright windows, the courtyard washed clean by rain, red orchids blooming quietly, green bamboos standing side by side. Glory and wealth are but passing clouds; the mind, serene as still water. Though not entirely free from worldly ties, one's thoughts may still soar beyond the heavens.

The fourth begins with the bright moon and cool breeze: the moon rises from the sea, the cool wind descends from the sky—all things manifest naturally, and the heart-mind suddenly opens. Grasping the adaptable wisdom of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius, the knots of "benevolence and righteousness" loosen. Ritual laws were made to guard against deceit—were they ever meant for people like us?

The fifth reflects on autumn scenery and life's sentiments: sparse rain drips upon parasol trees, a gentle breeze sways the tender willows—the scenery repeats year after year, yet people's hair has turned white. Mundane troubles linger; worldly attachments are hard to shake. Life is but a dream—why cling so tightly?

The sixth employs mandarin ducks and autumn rivers as metaphors: elegant mandarin ducks grace the clear stream, splendid waterfowl gather by cold pools, the vast sky pure as water, the autumn river still emerald-green. A true man harbors lofty aspirations, like a warrior who could face ten thousand foes. Amid the lotus-scented breeze, those in small boats will remember one another.

The seventh reflects on the fickleness of human relations: yesterday, one thought to offer water; today, they wish to fold their fan away. Human hearts clash like spears and halberds; the world's warmth and coldness contradict themselves. Gain and loss arise from selfishness; preferences stem from prejudice. To teach others goodness, one must first embody it.

The eighth uses melons and fruits to express longing: blue melons like indigo, red peaches like blood—so beautiful one hesitates to touch them, let alone take a bite. Perfect in color and flavor, yet no one treasures them—how lamentable that people grow numb to beauty.

The ninth discusses the foundation of livelihood: a nation's fate rests with its people; the people's survival depends on grain. Even if sages were reborn, this truth would remain. Hollow favors are not worth praising—indulgence only harms; empty fame is not worth chasing—superficial adornments bring no benefit.

The tenth satirizes worldly superstitions: the Book of Songs speaks of taking a wife, the Book of Changes discusses "Returning Maiden"—yet the Qixi Festival's plea for skill is mere youthful sentimentality. When evening clouds disperse, people say the Cowherd and Weaver Girl meet, yet clouds and rain leave no trace—how could their pairing be real?

Though plain in language, these poems carry deep philosophy. They combine delicate observations of nature with clear-eyed analysis of human affairs, embodying the author's transcendent, return-to-simplicity worldview.

The selected poems from Yichuan Jirang Ji depict the leisurely life and transcendent mindset of literati recluses. Let me analyze them section by section:

The first verse describes how the refreshing breeze needs no assistance to reach my hands, nor does the bright moon require human effort to shine through my window. When the mind is already at peace, how can external temptations disturb it? Trivial matters are not worth mentioning—the only concern is whether the wine vessel lacks fine liquor. Here, the breeze and moonlight symbolize the natural Dao, emphasizing the importance of inner tranquility.

Next comes a portrayal of courtyard scenery: emerald banana leaves unfurling, green reeds bending low, while wind and rain intensify the deep sound of the night water clock (an ancient timekeeping device). External phenomena inherently lack preference—why should the mind react with surprise? Yet one still worries about wanderers drifting at the world's edge.

At dusk, faint mist envelops sparse woods as a light wind carries chilly rain. Farmers have returned home while chickens still peck at millet. The poet reflects: though the mind remains unmoved, navigating worldly affairs is truly difficult. Attempting to summarize in a phrase, one fears language may fail to convey it.

The eighth month's weather balances warmth and coolness. Gazing from heights, tall trees appear low and travelers seem small. The poet realizes: clinging to form is illusion—only through wuxin (non-intentionality) can truth be comprehended. Why inquire about hardship? It's like the bitter herbs growing naturally.

During autumn harvest, golden millet ripens and plump yellow chickens abound. These easily obtained things were highly valued by the ancients—suitable for hosting guests and honoring parents. Coarse cloth suffices for winter—what more could one seek?

Grain grows by heaven's doing; yeast comes from human craft. Brewed into fine wine, it brings intoxication: the rigid become gentle, the timid gain courage. This power to transform creation—its merit is truly great.

As autumn deepens, the aging mind grows increasingly indolent. Weary, one descends the steps to stroll; idle, one thumbs through books. Dusty winds dominate city avenues—pure spaces are rare. Noble gates run deep as oceans, the imperial threshold lies even farther.

Wild geese haven't arrived from beyond the frontier, yet swallows already flee south from the beams. Separated by countless cloud-wrapped mountains—when shall we meet again? Lofty city gates, winding post-station roads—alien winds and dust wear out garments, newly changed yet soon old again.

Amid intermittent cicada songs, occasional falcons streak past. Time emptily flows while human affairs grow desolate. Trimmed bamboo preserves new shoots; reopened books revisit old chapters. Those truly understanding heart-nourishment—how would they contend for worldly power?

The final sections depict mid-autumn beauty: the Central Plains' misty waters appear miraculously clear as people grow mildly intoxicated in the chill. Moonlight cleanses the swept bed; fine breezes stir lapel corners. A single insight in the heart—how could ordinary folk know? The full moon illuminates high towers as midnight dew descends—its radiance like a newly polished mirror (jian) illuminating eternity. Here "polishing the mirror" metaphorically represents refining one's nature through spiritual cultivation.

These poetic passages depict late autumn scenery and reflections on life. The first section describes: The human heart, pure as snow yet reflecting eternity, while cold dew condenses on withered grass. A mournful wind sways the twilight forest as birdsong rises and falls, the weather alternating between sun and clouds. The shifting seasons are but fleeting phenomena, yet the human heart harbors thoughts spanning millennia. Who says that after Zhong Ziqi's death (the legendary qin master of the Spring and Autumn period), the world lost all who appreciate true music?

The second passage paints autumn: Willow branches scatter in wind like combs, frost-faded clouds appear swept clean. Tall buildings pierce perilous skies while morning mist coils upward through the chill. If one doesn't pour out their heart now, how can they withstand autumn's decay? Better take up the wine jar and drink face to face with the west wind.

The third passage contrasts fading lotus in ponds with flourishing chrysanthemums by fences, illustrating how all things flourish and decline in their season, just as sages and fools seldom walk together. How can one remain evergreen like pine and osmanthus through all seasons?

The fourth section laments: Age shows more clearly in autumn, as mountains show their depth through water. Lofty trees have shed their leaves while clever birds sing in vain. Bones and sinews weaken with years, virtue straying from its original heart. Thankfully, books remain for constant revisiting.

The fifth passage describes September's killing atmosphere where cicadas still sing on withering willows. Sparse temple bells break through frosty skies as clear natural sounds carry on the wind. Gazing at thousand-fold mountains brings visual chaos while a lone falcon streaks across high emptiness. Only those beyond worldly dust dare speak such unwelcome truths.

The sixth section observes how pears grow redder after frost, how pomegranates split after long rains - these world-praised fruits indeed startle with their flavors. Earth nurtures countless things while Heaven stays silent. My continued speech shows I've yet to synchronize with Ziran (the spontaneous Way).

Comparing northern and southern delicacies: southern tangerines and northern chestnuts may share similar husks but differ in essence. How could Heaven and Earth be unkind? All plants bear fruit. Creation never fails humanity - it's humans who fail creation.

The eighth passage captures autumn's stillness: butterflies circle cold chrysanthemums, crickets chirp on empty steps. Household dogs lounge all day without visitors, while clear waves flow silently and white clouds pile leisurely. How to express cosmic harmony? Better drink a cup of wine.

Red leaves battle western winds as chrysanthemums laugh beneath cold sun. The Dao manifests waxing and waning - no human affair lasts forever. Profound meaning comes through stillness, gain and loss reveal themselves in dreams. When profit and harm don't entangle, right and wrong become clear.

The ninth passage records Double Ninth Festival mountain ascents - seeking secluded wonders, drinking wine and composing poetry. Continuing traditions according to custom amidst mild chills. Drinking unstrained new-brewed wine while admiring dew-fresh chrysanthemums. Seeing through worldly illusions - why indulge excessive sorrow?

The final sketch portrays mountain hues: ranges reclining in evening haze, solitary smoke beyond which birds vanish. Frost-threatened chrysanthemums worry, while secluded orchids.... These images all reveal late autumn's solitude and life's philosophical truths.

These passages from Yichuan Jirang Ji express the author's profound reflections on life, nature, and the principles of living. The first segment observes how people fear hardship and cling to wealth, yet the author's heart remains free from such attachments—like a clear, cold pool reflecting one's true self, or mountains revealing their essence after shedding their leaves. The vast heavens and earth stretch boundlessly; the poet hangs his robe upon the Fusang (a mythical sacred tree) and reaches for the moon, steadfast in his commitment to benevolence and righteousness, indifferent to the fleeting span of fifty years.

The second passage uses the withering and flourishing of plants as a metaphor for the fickleness of human relationships: lush grass adorned with dew is beloved by all, yet when vegetation withers, the biting wind brings only desolation. Human hearts are prone to suspicion, much like how Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) wept at crossroads or Mozi (founder of Mohism) grieved over dyed silk. Realizing these truths too late, the poet can only shed tears in solitude.

The third section depicts autumn scenery: under a sky stretching ten thousand miles, moonlight glows like frost, with verdant pines standing tall while flowers fade. Teeth loosen with age, hair thins, and though the poet acknowledges many faults, his heart no longer dwells on trivialities.

The fourth passage portrays the bleakness of autumn and winter: withered plants leave the mountains barren, fallen leaves render heaven and earth gaunt. The north wind howls, and faint light filters through gaps in the clouds. The past cannot be reclaimed, but the future still offers room for remedy. Reluctant to speak excessively—for words may invite misfortune—the poet holds his tongue.

The fifth segment discusses drinking: wine need not flow in excess, as a few cups suffice to bring mild intoxication. Before drunkenness sets in, one cannot stop; once drunk, persuasion is futile. Who dares claim that the vastness of all things surpasses heaven and earth? Or that the complexity of worldly affairs transcends human nature?

Finally, Harmonizing with Magistrate Zhang Shirou’s Poem on Shizhu Village is a poetic exchange with a friend. The author identifies Zhang as the county magistrate of Shaanxi, while he styles himself a descendant of Master Kangjie (Shao Yong). The friend’s poem mentions Shizhu Village, though the origin of its stone pillar is lost to time. Humbly admitting his limited study of classics and history, the poet considers both theories plausible—whether it was Duke Zhou (Changqing) dividing governance of Shaanxi or King Cheng of Zhou (Bi Ming) establishing Chengzhou as the capital. The shade of the sweet pear tree and the moss on the stone pillar record past glories; though unable to witness them firsthand, their millennial legacy still reaches his ears. To discard the classics and rely solely on biographies is unworthy of a Confucian scholar, hence he composes this verse in response, offering it as a token of friendship.

This passage speaks of the Daoist pursuit of a liberated and carefree attitude toward life. The joy brought by the state of "Xiyi" (referring to the Daoist realm of emptiness and tranquility) frees one from the anxiety and distress caused by worldly favor or disgrace, gain or loss. Though one may verbally claim to see through all worldly affairs, the heart still harbors certain attachments.

People bustle about only to find their struggles for fame and profit ultimately futile. Why not follow my example—casually writing my name in idle moments? Who can truly transcend the bounds of human nature and emotions? The deliberate pursuit of transcendence ironically gives rise to new attachments.

(Note: From the poetry collection "Yichuan Jirang Ji" by Northern Song Neo-Confucian scholar Shao Yong, this reflects the blended thought of Daoism and Neo-Confucianism, advocating a life attitude of following nature's course and remaining unburdened by external matters.)