《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 4

These poems from Volume 4 of The Yichuan Jirang Collection reveal the leisurely life and Daoist sentiments of Song Dynasty recluse Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) in his new Yichuan residence.

The first poem thanks Prefect Wang Gongchen (courtesy name Junkuang) for building his new home. Completed in the seventh year of the Jiayou era (Renyin year), the residence near Daode Lane offered views of the majestic palace gates. The verses depict the murmuring Chanjian stream outside his window and distant vistas of Yique Gate and Mount Song, marveling at such rare beauty. Though claiming no talent for worldly service, he rejoices in prosperous times, finding childlike delight amidst bamboo-lined waters and dancing orioles—like the carefree Lao Laizi of legend. He humbly concludes that only his "cinnabar heart" (丹心, symbolizing loyalty) can repay such kindness, though it falls short.

Ode to the New Spring portrays his fifty-two-year-old, ailment-ridden body still able to enjoy spring wine. Comparing himself to Mencius' doctrine of "embodying virtue through physical cultivation" (践形), yet lacking Yan Hui's moral achievements. Watching swallows come and go, flowers bloom and fade—all seems futile; two decades have left his heart like cold ashes, unmoved by external things.

Chant of the Visiting Guest presents himself as a Yisong Mountain hermit, submitting advancement or retreat to heaven's will. His love for landscapes isn't for attaining immortality—the free breeze, costing no coin, brings deepest contentment. Quoting Mencius' "bend a foot to stretch a yard" (枉尺直寻), he shows no concern for petty gains, seeking only peace of mind rather than perfection.

Spring in My Small Garden describes how even this casually arranged plot brims with spring. Moonlit blossoms exude stillness; beyond sunlit bamboo, cold mists rise. Realizing all worldly matters are transient, he treasures heaven-sent leisure as no accident. The Daoist metaphor "sun and moon in a gourd" (壶中日月, symbolizing timeless paradisiacal existence) captures twelve years of serene living.

Late Spring Meditation depicts his garden's flowers competing in splendor, indifferent to wealth or poverty. Willow shade floats emerald; floral shadows flow crimson. Young swallows practice chirping; returning geese form orderly lines. Asked about his state of mind? He answers: partial to the flavor of carefree indolence.

Cherishing Blossoms' Beauty reflects how nothing worldly compares to carefree joy beneath flowering boughs. Spring's glory lasts barely ten days—one must guard against sorrow's obstruction while dodging stormy destruction. The closing warning against waiting to "light torches for fallen blooms" (把火) alludes to Li Shangyin's Tang verse about appreciating fading beauty—a Daoist reminder to seize the moment, embodying the wisdom of living fully in the present.

Selected Interpretations from Yichuan Jirang Collection

Reply to a Friend’s Poem

The wine in my cup is still drinkable; there’s no need to fret over graying hair, for I have my zither and books to keep me company. Though I lack the talent to assist a flourishing age, I might as well recline by the south-facing window. I know my strength is waning, yet my heart still yearns for the cloud-wrapped peaks I’ve yet to climb. I am deeply grateful for my old friend’s kindness, which has saved me, a fish stranded in a dried-up rut, from languishing by the western river.

Reflections

At fifty-two, what more is there to fear from growing old? In action, thoroughness is prized; in speech, true intent is hard to convey. With wise rulers above and virtuous ministers below, I need only eat my fill and sleep in peace—what more could I ask for?

Begging for Wine

This ailing, aging body, my white hair shames me for wasted years. Though no imperial summons hastens me to court, the green mountains often visit my dreams. Who truly owns the boundless wind and moon? Do the woods and springs lack kindred spirits? Though the wine from the market is thin, it does no disservice to the springtime in my heart.

Answering a Guest

Though many in this world know me, few truly understand. Most value me for my study of the Dao, yet it is through my poetry that they grasp my depths. Why ask of life’s ups and downs? From ancient times to now, it’s all just a game of chess. Must one wait for a legendary steed to seek a fine horse?

Awakening to the Dao

A hundred tangled thoughts are no match for a single word of insight. The world has no great affairs—heaven and earth produce their own talents. The only fear is failing to meet a true friend; why worry that the great Dao remains obscure? If one can cast aside envy, sickness fades where no dust settles.

Thanks for the Gift of a Brush

You’ve honored me with treasures from your study: a rabbit-hair brush, firm and strong; a bamboo shaft, straight and slender. With it, I may quietly transcribe new poems or idly copy medicinal recipes. Beyond this, I shall take care to preserve its fine tip.

Reflections

Heaven and earth move by constant principles; the sun and moon shine without concealment. Beyond eating my fill and sleeping soundly, empty fame may be cast aside. Though I lack the talents of Yi Yin or Lü Shang, I remain a good subject under the rule of Yao and Shun. Why must one hold ministerial office? Peace under heaven is enough.

Ode to the Twin-Headed Lotus

Like the peerless Zhao sisters of the Han palace, or the immortal lovers of Tiantai Mountain. How many romantic tales of old now descend to the mortal world as this auspicious twin-blossomed lotus?

On Life

Confucius spoke of "rectifying the heart"; Mencius taught "fulfilling one’s nature." Grasp these two, and this life will not be wasted. Let friendship be rooted in the Dao, and move others with sincerity. Even if faced with a thousand armies, one’s resolve shall not waver.

The Yichuan Jirang Collection presents several poems that reveal Shao Yong's leisurely contentment and Daoist philosophy.

In a letter replying to a friend, he laments how lacking official position makes great deeds difficult, yet achieving merit proves surprisingly easy. Pursuing perfection inevitably invites slander, while accomplishing grand matters requires overlooking details. When eliminating evil, he worries about harming friendships; when tolerating wrongdoing, he frets over compromising righteousness—thus possessing a benevolent heart without genuine benevolent action.

Another response contrasts how a minister's annual salary equals a poor scholar's lifetime expenses, observing that while human ranks differ, Heaven's bestowed virtue (De) never runs short. Without frost and snow's tempering, how could we know the pine and cassia's true character? Even without official title, moral cultivation can equally elevate a person.

Recalling old times with a friend, he recounts thirty years of witnessed changes—ten intercalary months passing as wealthy families welcomed new heirs. Riches and honors prove fleeting accidents—why fuss over gains and losses of fame?

In spontaneous verse, he describes the joy of unfettered composition: seizing brush to express his nature, encountering scenes that birth poetry. This natural delight defies description, known only within one's heart.

During quiet contemplation, he reflects how plans often yield to circumstance—since Heaven's favor proves lacking, why not entrust oneself to mountains and streams? Genuine detachment leads to the Daoist realm of "Xi-Yi" (the inaudible and invisible), realizing the Dao's operations require no forced management.

Strolling Luoyang's Tianjin Bridge (a famed Tang-Song dynasty span), he marvels at the ancient capital's splendor: waterside gardens, distant autumn pavilions, snow-like waves, lingering rainbows. These peaceful times invite lingering.

Living by Tianjin Bridge, he savors Luoyang's privileges—first to greet dawn, earliest spring arrivals. In such tranquil moments, reclusion surpasses officialdom.

Nights bring the music of Luo River swirling past stone steps—autumn winds churning rapids, night rains swelling currents. What need has a hermit for pipes and strings?

Sleepless, he sits through midnight, lying awake while reviewing past events—drowsy upon the pillow, clear beneath blankets, watching moonlight through banana leaves.

From a summer perch in Tian Palace's small pavilion (likely a Daoist tower), leaning on railings, he admires ancient minds' profundity, subtly transcending worldly concerns. These works showcase Shao Yong's Confucian-Daoist synthesis, perceiving cosmic principles through unhurried living.

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection depict the vicissitudes of Luoyang City and reflections on human life, permeated with a transcendent Daoist sensibility between the lines.

The first poem describes a mist-shrouded Daoist temple (楼观) in the deep mountains, where passersby hurry by without grasping its true significance. In the quiet of night, the sound of a zither evokes the natural harmonies of gibbons calling and phoenixes singing—eternal green mountains remain beautiful, and white-haired aging need not bring alarm. Only by comprehending the state of "sitting in forgetfulness" (坐忘, a Daoist meditation practice) can one realize the pristine heart of antiquity.

The twenty-sixth poem in the series takes Tianjin Bridge (a famous ancient bridge in Luoyang) as its backdrop: on an autumn evening of thin clouds and swift winds, the poet walks alone by the Luo River, watching gulls and egrets alight on sandy islets. The glories and declines of the past have all faded, yet carriages and horses still come and go along the Chang’an Road in the twilight. The phoenix towers (凤楼, imperial palaces) locked in mist bear witness to a century of upheaval—the grand sacrifices at Fenyin are long gone, and the emerald banners (翠华, imperial processions) have wasted the spring scenery of Shangyang Palace (a Tang-dynasty palace).

The poem uses the image of a great river cutting through the city to symbolize the unstoppable flow of history, its roaring waves like the angry voice of time. As the sun sets and the river flows eastward, the distant mountains seem sorrowful in the changing seasons, though none know for whom they grieve. People rush about in pursuit of fame and profit, their carriages and horses jostling in competition—all for the sake of wealth and status. Far better to sit idly and watch the clouds and water, keeping one’s heart-mind unharmed by external things.

The closing verses are particularly profound: ancient ruins now overgrown with towering trees, crows scattering in the dusk, common folk tilling the fields where ministers’ mansions once stood—all testifying to the impermanence of prosperity and decline. The phoenix towers still span the autumn sky, while below the bridge, the Luo River surges toward the sea. For thousands of years, countless people have passed hurriedly through these streets of bygone dynasties. The poem ends with a white-haired old man leaning on the railing to gaze at the Luo River—last year’s onlooker has become this year’s rider, thirteen years slipping silently away at the bridge’s edge. The entire series uses water as a metaphor for time and the bridge as a vantage point on the world, weaving flowing imagery into a Daoist contemplation of historical change.

By the embankment, lush grasses thrive, while travelers come and go along the field paths. The clear stream wishes to remain pure, yet finds it hard to resist the world's touch; the spring breeze has yet to fully coax the willow branches into swaying.

No matter how swift the current, it cannot disturb the realm of stillness; though flowers may fall frequently, they carry their own quiet grace. Unlike the people of this dusty world, who grow old in endless busyness, rarely finding a moment of genuine laughter in their lives.

Sitting idly by the stream, I scarcely bother to open my eyes, watching the waves batter the long embankment as if to tear it down. How many brilliantly plumed waterfowl glide back and forth across the river's surface?

Gain and loss, fame and fortune—these depend on one's innate capacity. Travelers need not eye each other with suspicion. How much time is frittered away with a wine jar? Better to stroll upon Tianjin Bridge, observing the comings and goings of passersby.

The southeastern lands tilt as a whole—when will these turbulent waters grow calm? Tianjin Bridge spans the very heart of the tumult, where the sound of infinite depths resounds.

Three thousand miles to the distant frontiers, for a hundred years they've proclaimed an age of peace. But how can it compare to the recluses of Luochuan, free from worldly concerns? Must one be enfeoffed as a lord or minister to count as honored?

A gentle breeze stirs the willows encircling the dyke; fine rain veils the waterside pavilions. After the Double Ninth Festival, in the haze of mild intoxication—this is when the mood feels most sublime.

From a place of stillness, observe the bustle of human affairs; relax your spirit to comprehend the truth of all things. When the mind becomes as placid as still water, what in this world remains beyond understanding?

Since Sui and Tang times, high ministers have been held in esteem; in recent ages, people chase fame and fortune's storms. Tell me, O waters beneath Tianjin Bridge—what sound did your rapids make in days of old?

Countless illustrious lords and ministers of former dynasties—posterity barely recalls their names. Only the sound of water beneath Tianjin Bridge remains unchanged through the ages.

Not a wisp of cloud obscures the bright moon; the thousand-zhang bridge lies across emerald waves. I doubt the mortal world holds any scene more splendid—what feelings must arise when gazing at the moon during Mid-Autumn?

In Jiaru City (Luoyang's byname), kindred spirits gather below Phoenix Tower to celebrate the festival. When the fine wine is drained and guests depart, the contest between moonlight and wave-light continues unabated.

Only by penetrating life and death can one speak of ordinary matters; only with enlightened mind and revealed nature may one discuss the Great Dao (Daode). This endless river flows day and night—who, after all, drives it ceaselessly eastward?

Reflections on Sincerity and Illumination:

Confucius' innate knowledge was no falsehood; Mencius' prior awakening still required cultivation. Sincerity and illumination are our original endowment—yet people today insist on seeking them externally.

Insights from Plumb Line and Water:

Water excels at levelness but struggles to stay straight; the plumb line achieves straightness but not levelness. Were one to merge line and water into one, what principle in this world would remain obscure?

Lament of Bitterness:

(Here the original text is fragmentary, but the poetic sense suggests:) Of life's hundred flavors, the hardest to articulate are those private sorrows not meant for others' ears.

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection express the author's serene contentment and philosophical reflections on transcending worldly concerns.

The first poem states: The bitter flavors of life are not its true essence, just as the Shang and Zhi modes (two of the ancient pentatonic scales) aren't the purest music. Since no one in this world can distinguish right from wrong, who then can uphold justice? Only by maintaining inner peace can one discern clearly.

The second poem, Reflection on Speech and Silence, discusses the wisdom of knowing when to speak: Speaking when one should remain silent is a fault; keeping silent when one should speak brings obscurity. Understanding the proper timing for speech and silence keeps the mind untainted.

The third poem, Account of Leisure Dwelling, describes the joys of reclusive life: Preserving one's innate purity without depletion, not pursuing high office or wealth. In peaceful times, one finds spontaneous joy, occasionally enjoying a few cups of wine. Bamboo rain brings cooling freshness; upon waking, one gazes at the beautiful Xiao-Xiang scenery. The ceaseless dripping from eaves recalls past night voyages. After rain clears, the moon rises between pines; summer breezes skim across water surfaces—such happiness already surpasses ordinary life, let alone the frequent pleasure of raising cups in merriment.

The fourth poem celebrates domestic bliss: An octogenarian mother thrives in the hall, while children laugh before the steps. Meals follow the household's means—such familial joy is rare in this world. Simple pleasures seldom cease, yet revelry never exceeds moderation. When friends meet, they discuss arts rather than vulgar matters. Each season's flora offers unique charms; a thousand scrolls of scriptures constitute daily life. If asked where this leisurely dwelling lies—it occupies the finest spot in Daode Lane (likely the residence's name).

The fifth poem, Cooling in the Celestial Palace Pavilion, describes respite in a small tower: Leaning on railings to gaze at Luoyang, where clouds embrace the capital. Winds from Longevity Mountain (near Luoyang) carry crisp air. This humble pavilion serves me well—it's Luoyang's coolest refuge. Though feeling time slips by idly, I'm blessed to brush sleeves with winds spanning ten thousand miles. Such coolness is hard-won, evoking the primordial era of Fu Xi. An anonymous Luoyang guest has shared this coolness with me for twenty years.

The sixth poem, Occasional Verses on Celestial Palace Hermitage, observes: People deem celestial realms distant, yet one must deliberately seek them. Leisure reveals the world's peace; prolonged stillness expands the spirit (Shen). Watching chess games illuminates truths; discussing poetry accompanies wine. Countless worldly affairs find no place in my heart.

The seventh poem, Wandering at Dragon Gate (a scenic spot near Luoyang), depicts: River skies unchanging through time, sandy paths stretching under clear skies. Mountain ridges intermittently visible, ferries slanting toward river bends. Countless caves, two or three shops. All seasons offer beauty, conveniently close to the capital.

The eighth poem, Revisiting Luochuan, remarks: When buying stones, choose cloud-veined ones; when acquiring mountains, seek waterside slopes. Clouds free the heart from attachments, while waters....

This passage elucidates the principles of self-cultivation. The opening line "to illuminate one's nature like a mirror (jian) with a mind free of desires" suggests observing one's innate nature with the stillness of a mirror, maintaining a desireless state to perceive true emotions. "Self-restraint through mirror-like observation" means using this contemplative state to discipline oneself—these two cultivation methods are inseparable.

"Emerging from that to enter this" refers to withdrawing from external distractions to return to inner tranquility. The subsequent allusion to "observing fish in the river" illustrates this: even in autumn when the river turns cold, fish continue to swim; though they may avoid nets, they still risk swallowing hooks unwittingly. This metaphor warns that while people may evade obvious dangers, they can still be ensnared by subtle temptations.

The author declares having severed ambitions for fame and rank (ascending the gate and pointing toward officialdom) and no longer fearing setbacks (bruised foreheads). Finally, recalling Zhuangzi's joy while watching fish at the Hao River, the passage concludes that such a transcendent, liberated state—free from worldly attachments—is the true ideal to pursue. Through the imagery of observing fish, the text conveys the Daoist philosophy of serene non-action (wuwei) and returning to one's original simplicity.