《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 6
About this page. The original text of 《伊川擊壤集》 Vol. 6 (Taixuan 太玄部, 20 volumes) is shown in Classical Chinese as transmitted in the Kanripo (Kyoto University) edition. An English interpretation of the 10 passages on this page accompanies it: select a passage or press “Interpretation” to show it. All texts in English
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Source textInterpretation
These are a series of exchange poems by Northern Song Neo-Confucian scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu), collected in his Yichuan Jirang Ji. The verses express the author's reclusive sentiments—his detachment from fame and wealth, and his emotional connection with nature.
The first poem, addressed to Zhou Shiyan, magistrate of Pu'an County in Jianzhou, suggests that officials need not lament their lack of autonomy, for true gentlemen understand the Dao of yielding and advancing. Just as Tao Yuanming resigned as magistrate of Pengze to retreat into seclusion, it's never too late to withdraw after achieving merit like Shu Guang did. The scenic beauty of Yique and Songshan is captivating—why not seek spiritual solace here?
The second poem describes a long journey from Shu to Wu: gazing northward last year, traveling westward this year. The towering Sword Gate Pass pierces the clouds, while the Qinling Mountains block the imperial capital of Chang'an. When longing for friends in the wind, could we share a drink together?
The third poem depicts the reunion and parting of old friends: it's the season when elders frequently visit, and autumn deepens as plants wither. Holding chrysanthemums and raising wine cups, another year passes as my friend departs westward.
The fourth poem replies to Zhao Chongde: while others chase official posts as if treading on thin ice, I prefer staying far from court and markets. My rustic face is unfit for the palace; my idle body and mind are only suited to visit Yang Zhu's hometown. Though lacking formal structure, I've penned a thousand poems, rich with cloud-covered mountains and a gourd of wine. Sensing you'll soon ride eastward, we may no longer share the breeze and moonlight.
The fifth poem replies to Wang Buyi: having lived in Luoyang for twenty years, I've witnessed endless human affairs. My body decays like grass and trees, yet my mind remains clear as a bell or cauldron. The wind of benevolence has seeped into my bones, and I marvel at your poetic talent like flawless jade. Zhuangzi's debate over name and reality reveals my inadequacy in meeting others' expectations.
The sixth poem replies to Professor Wei: in this enlightened era, writings shine like sun and moon, yet untalented, I merely rejoice in prosperous times. I've roamed from Mount Taishi to Shaoshi, viewing the Yi River and Luo River. Mencius found few kindred spirits in antiquity; even fewer Yan Hui-like sages exist today. Whenever I read about the origins of the Dao, I fear your probing into its profound mysteries.
The seventh poem replies to Wu Chongqing: the wondrous state between being and non-being is the root of the Dao, barely distinct from the mundane world. All may reach it except me; nothing hinders the unimpeded flow of all things. In loss, my liver and spleen feel estranged like Chu and Yue; in attainment, wild herbs surpass rich feasts. The eternal enigma's subtle function is revealed by the roaring waves of Lüliang.
The eighth poem replies to Sun Chuanshi: to grasp the simplicity of Yao and Shun's era, first understand the primal truth before Fu Xi drew the trigrams. Mountains and forests hold carefree joy—why rigidly distinguish hermits from immortals? Be like Yan Ziling fishing by the Fuchun River, or Fan Li sailing the Five Lakes. These timeless tales endure because they resonate with the Dao of Heaven.
The poems from Yichuan Jirang Ji reveal the author's leisurely contentment and his reflections on historical vicissitudes.
The first poem depicts his humble dwelling south of Tianjin, where distinguished guests often visit despite its simplicity. Free from the constraints of ritual after retirement, he has grown distant from worldly ambitions due to prolonged idleness. Rather than chasing fame in history books, he prefers immersing himself in nature. A sincere heart devoted to the Dao (cultivation) is most precious—he hopes to maintain this tranquil state indefinitely.
The second poem portrays a gathering after snowfall. In the imperial gardens, flowers overnight don a fresh coat, while the jade-like snow blankets the Jade Terrace (immortal realm). Bamboo leaves in the city become more valuable due to the snow, and willow catkins dance like springtime in the banquet hall. The guests, reminiscent of the literary gatherings at Liang Garden, compose verses—but who still remembers the immortals of Mount Guye (a Daoist sacred mountain)? With granaries far exceeding a thousand in stock, such heavy snowfall should come more often.
The third poem describes the winter scenery of the Historiographer’s Garden. Ancient pines stand encircled by verdant bamboo, their shade sheltering a small pavilion—a place that refreshes the spirit. Plum branches crack slightly under the weight of snow, while beneath the ice, a stream murmurs. Year’s end stirs melancholy, and emotions surge with slight intoxication. How pitiable that the chancellor’s empty reputation lingers—when will my own ideals be realized?
The fourth poem reflects on the past at White Emperor City. Unwilling to accept Cao Cao’s occupation of Xuchang, the struggle for supremacy would have been impossible without holding Liangzhou and Yizhou (the Shu region). The Three Kingdoms’ rivalry raged like wind and thunder, while the southwest’s terrain remained impregnable. Passersby point at the landscape, and historians’ judgments are but empty words. Later generations fail to grasp the true meaning of rise and fall—just look at this ancient battlefield in the river’s heart.
The last two leisurely poems were composed in the first year of the Xining era. Grateful to live in peaceful times and reside in the capital, he disdains hollow fame and fleeting wealth, finding beauty in every green mountain and clear stream. To choose scenic spots for outings, one must seek like-minded companions. Leisure and joy belong to the idle—how much more so when stolen from busyness? A six-foot frame should savor present delights, and the four seasons should not be wasted. The second and eighth months offer the most pleasant weather, perfect for discussing the Dao (the Way) and righteousness with a few close friends. Wine and dishes are prepared according to means, and laughter flows naturally. I urge you to embrace such tranquility—even in old age, it should never grow tiresome.
The final verse warns: Do not let sorrow deplete your Qi (vital energy), for heroes may die in indignation, yet the world remains unchanged. Though ten thousand horses may gallop on the road, phoenixes still soar beyond the heavens. Three thousand scholars hone their talents, and a hundred and twenty rivers and mountains are guarded by the sword—yet all are but a spring dream. What else is there worth grieving over?
These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection express the author's profound reflections on nature, human life, and familial bonds.
The first poem depicts a spring mountain scene. Upon waking, the poet gazes at the spring mountains, where mist swirls and a thousand-mile vista unfolds before his eyes. Such leisurely freedom is rare even in a hundred years. His heart drifts like willow catkins, untethered, while his thoughts flow freely like gossamer strands. Yet he fears the mountain birds might see through his carefree mood, so they deliberately chatter noisily on the branches.
The second poem laments the passage of time. The east wind brings boundless vitality, and as the last month of winter fades, preparations for spring begin. Willow branches sway gently in the warm breeze, while plum blossoms steal half of spring's essence to bloom. The poet reminisces about the sentiments of his youth, now only able to watch as carefree youths in disheveled robes pass by.
The Song of Peach and Plum uses the blooming and withering of flowers as a metaphor for life's vicissitudes. Peach and plum blossoms flourish with the wind, only to scatter with it—joy and sorrow alternate endlessly. The natural law dictates that what flourishes must eventually decline; there's no need to envy the ancients, for we were simply born too late.
The Heartbroken Journey employs an iron needle to symbolize heartache. Who knows what kind of iron forged this needle, piercing the heart stitch by stitch. The human heart is barely an inch wide, yet the needle must plunge deep.
The elegy for his deceased younger brother is the most poignant. The bond between brothers is harder to sever than cutting out one's own heart. Recalling their mutual support in the past, now on moonlit nights with gentle breezes, he stands alone by the eastern fence, heartbroken. Thirty-two years of brotherly affection—when will this pain ever fade?
The final poem recalls the deep bond between brothers. The elder was named Yong, the younger Mu—their affection ran deep. While their father was alive, the four brothers often stayed by his side, playing in colorful robes, filling the household with joy. Their father passed away the year before last, and this year, the younger brother departed as well—a lamentable turn of fate.
Though simple in language, these poems brim with genuine emotion, revealing the poet's profound insights into nature, time, and familial love.
These poetic verses express the author's profound grief for departed loved ones and lamentation on the impermanence of life.
The first poem depicts an only son mourning his mother, with four brothers daily weeping before the ancestral tablet. The poet hyperbolically describes his anguish as "intestines stretched thousands of feet long" and tears "filling thousands of vessels" - unbridgeable sorrow where past affection can only be recalled amidst the wild grasses of the gravesite.
The second verse employs the cuckoo's cry to mourn a deceased younger brother. Last early summer they listened together to its call; this year the bird sings unchanged, but only the elder remains. Each mournful note rends the heart, as if the soul itself flies away with the bird.
The third poem describes walking through southern gardens that stir poignant memories. Though lush grasses wave in the evening breeze, shared joys with the departed brother can never return. Gazing at drifting clouds, the poet wonders if they might embody his sibling's spirit.
The fourth verse sighs at cruel fate. Though heaven and earth show no partiality, fraternal bonds vanish in an instant. Five or seven years of family misfortunes culminate in headaches at sixty. Though seeking detachment, worldly attachments prove inescapable.
The fifth poem portrays an aged man still wishing to beat earthen jars and sing. Time flies like arrows while human affairs tangle like hemp - without early preparation, greater losses follow. The elderly poet strives for equanimity, yet unforeseen calamities inevitably come.
The final two poems exchange sentiments with a friend. The poet grieves how easily we part yet struggle to reunite, with hilltop vistas intensifying longing. A century's time vanishes irrevocably; a thousand li's separation deepens yearning. The "Northern Sea" allusion covertly suggests seizing present pleasures in wine.
Selected Passages from The Collection of Striking the Earth at Yichuan: A Modern Interpretation
Shao Yong's poetry depicts a contented attitude toward life. He suggests that happiness lies in knowing one's place, while the pursuit of security is endless. After a meal, he strolls through a garden fragrant with herbs; upon waking with nothing to do, he visits monks. The scenery at Tianjin Bridge (a famed site in Luoyang) surpasses all others, and he often reminisces about the times spent brewing tea and sharing heartfelt conversations with friends.
In Ode to the Benevolent, he cautions: true benevolent individuals are rare, so one should always be careful with words and actions. Striving for dominance easily invites misfortune, while gentle speech brings lasting benefits. Indulging in rich delicacies leads to illness, and excessive pursuit of pleasure inevitably invites calamity. Rather than seeking a cure after falling ill, it is better to take preventive measures beforehand.
Two Poems on Enjoying Early Plum Blossoms in the Eastern Pavilion While Urging Guests to Drink captures the refined pleasure of admiring plum blossoms in early spring. The poet prefers the "Xiaomei" (an early-blooming variety) over ordinary plum blossoms, watching a few early branches sway in the sunlight. If the southern hills' plums had already bloomed and faded before winter's end, how could Luoyang’s plums bloom at the right time? The fragrance of plums drifts with the warm breeze, their blossoms glowing vividly against the wine. He urges his guests to seize the springtime and not waste this perfect moment.
Long Chant of the Clear Breeze uses the clear breeze as a metaphor for the harmonious Qi (the most balanced energy in Daoist cosmology). The clear breeze can dispel illness and bring abundant harvests. It rises from the tips of duckweed, passes through emerald forests, and arrives at an old friend’s dwelling under the moonlight. The wind rustles dense leaves like swaying curtains, while blossoms burst forth as if dancing in fine attire. From afar, a few notes of a flute drift over, and countless willow tendrils hang gently. This breeze carries the fragrance of orchids, dispelling summer heat from pavilions and waterside terraces, bringing refreshing coolness. The poet describes the joy of feeling this breeze as akin to riding a celestial steed through the heavens or drinking sweet sugarcane juice—a pleasure that cannot be measured by wealth but only truly understood through Virtue (De).
Long Chant of the Weeping Willow focuses on the weeping willow, particularly noting a variety with exceptionally long branches, revealing the poet’s meticulous observation of natural phenomena.
This passage depicts the tranquil scenery of a spring courtyard interwoven with melancholic reflections on falling petals.
The first half paints a twilight scene in late spring: after the rain clears, a gentle breeze stirs, and ornamental huabiao pillars (decorative stone columns from ancient palaces) stand tall along the streets of Zhangtai (a famous avenue in Han Dynasty Chang’an). Green willow branches sway like silk ribbons, their golden reflections shimmering like luxurious robes. Willow catkins drift like snowflakes in the clear sky, their delicate tendrils stirring tender sorrow. The graceful branches resemble the refined demeanor of the nobleman Wang Gong or the elegant dance of the legendary beauty Zhao Feiyan. Emerald willow strands trail along the ground, their reflections shimmering in the pond, enhancing the scene of radiant blossoms and lush fragrant grass.
The latter half shifts to a lament for the falling flowers: wine enhances the appreciation of flowers, yet the more vibrant the blooms, the deeper the wine’s intoxication. Fresh blossoms fade within ten days, while the wine remains unfinished after a hundred cups. Butterflies, still devoted, linger over fading petals, while fickle bees abandon their old nectar. Fallen petals drift into secluded courtyards, adorning silent windows, yet fear being carried away by flowing waters. Historical allusions—such as Mawei Slope (where Yang Guifei met her tragic end) and the Golden Valley Garden (linked to the doomed romance of Shi Chong and Lüzhu)—subtly evoke the fleeting nature of splendor. The passage concludes with the poignant metaphor: "No moss-grown coins can buy back spring’s return; no willow threads can stitch fallen flowers back." This expresses resignation to the inevitable passing of springtime beauty, surrendering to nature’s course.
Rich in floral imagery (willow catkins, moss, fragrant grass) and historical references (Wang Gong, Zhao Feiyan, Cao Zhi, the Goddess of Wu Mountain), the text intertwines delicate natural descriptions with profound reflections on life’s transience, embodying the Daoist philosophy of harmonizing with nature and embracing detachment from worldly attachments.
The two poems from Yichuan Jirang Ji both convey exquisite imagery, depicting the burgeoning of spring vegetation and the rippling of spring waters, revealing the poet's keen observation of natural transformations and subtle melancholy.
The first poem, "Long Chant of Fragrant Grass," portrays the scene of tender grass sprouting after spring rain. The poet pleads for the fragrant grass to cease its growth and for the wine cup to remain unfilled, for if the grass grows endlessly, how can the wine cup ever rest? After the rain, the pondside pavilion lies tranquil, and the courtyard grows secluded in the depth of spring. Raising half the bamboo blind, the poet awakens from a light wine-induced haze. The delicate grass spreads densely, a lush green carpet, while the fading sunset casts a faint glow, bringing the chill of dawn. Quietly, it complements the flower-strewn village and leisurely adorns the bamboo grove. The gently swelling spring waters along the creek soak the fields, though the spring plowing has yet to begin. The poet wishes for no fine carriages or delicate horses to trample this beauty, lingering in boundless contemplation yet finding it hard to bear such deep emotion. In the distance, towers emerge faintly, the high pavilion suddenly brightens, as evening clouds hang low and distant mountains blur into view.
The second poem, "Long Chant of Spring Waters," describes the clarity and shifting moods of spring waters. When spring arrives, the waters naturally turn green, yet when spring departs, the verdure fades. Though the clear waters are lovely, they cannot compare to autumn. The thin ice has just melted, the light rain has just ceased—new islets appear on the vast waters, while the ripples of old sandbars shimmer. The lotus leaves still droop, unopened, while the tender shoots of wild rice have already sprouted. Duckweed gradually surfaces, but the waterweed is not yet dense. Beneath the warm sun, mandarin ducks play, and amid the clear mist, kingfishers glide. In the calm waters, carp leap, and when the wind stills, flocks of gulls frolic. The poet reflects on the lively spring outings elsewhere, where waters flow past terraces and embankments, meandering endlessly into the distance. Yet the overflowing currents dampen the mood, and the murmuring streams deepen wistful thoughts. The distant mountains cannot be concealed, nor can the creek waters be detained. By the bridges in February, across the plains of the southern lands, spring’s vitality is at its peak.
Both poems demonstrate the poet’s meticulous observation of natural scenes and a faint sorrow in the face of spring’s fleeting beauty. Rich in delicate imagery, they capture the vibrant yet transient essence of spring.
The ferry still bears two oars,
Deliberately bidding farewell to this solitary boat.
The painter has just set down his brush,
While the poet leans against the tower, gazing afar.
Willow catkins drift over the Yangtze,
Only stirring the sorrow of parting.
In youth, I was lost in books,
Finding all worldly joys foolish.
Now, wishing to make up for regrets,
It’s hard to reclaim the vigor of those days.
Whenever flowers bloom and the moon is full,
My heart is always tangled thus.
Without poetry and wine to accompany me now,
I’d rather sleep forever, unawakened.
Flowers under the bright moon glow with spirit,
The moon shining on rare blossoms grows more radiant—
Man, flowers, and moon merge into one,
As if wandering in the immortal realm (Rui Zhu, a Daoist paradise).
Yet I fear dark clouds may veil the moon,
And fierce winds may scatter the blossoms.
Without poetry and wine to accompany me,
Would such a fine moment not be wasted?
Fortunately, there are long verses to chant
And clear wine to drink.
Poetry and wine harmonize with flowers and moon:
Flowers without the moon lament their fleeting beauty,
The moon without flowers grieves its solitude.
Regret for the moon is poured into verse,
Sorrow for the flowers drowned in wine.
Only when moon’s regret and flowers’ sorrow are forgotten
Do I realize the true magic of poetry and wine.
Drinking leisurely in the woods,
What does it matter if I’m called a romantic sinner?
In Luoyang, the second month brims with spring,
Peach and plum blossoms bloom like embroidered screens.
High flowers connect with low crimson blooms,
Willow branches even arch above the floral clusters.
Accompanying the governor beyond the city walls,
We visit the Shangqing Palace (a Daoist temple) on Mount Mang.
No longer seeing the emperor’s grand western tour,
All day I stand in the wind, sighing alone.
Wildflowers, casually planted, sprawl freely,
Never once given special care.
Yet why do I favor bamboo that withstands frost (Ling Shuang Jie),
Even more for its use in crafting flutes (Lou Guan Ming)?
When the phoenix comes to roost, it will bear fruit;
Where dragons learn to sing, how could there be no sound?
A recluse seeks a few bamboo shoots—
If granted from your home, they’d be doubly treasured.
Gazing at green mountains and white clouds,
I ponder what constitutes true great virtue (Da De).
Where does joy arise?
Not only when hunger reveals the savor of meat.
Even a thousand clumsy verses cannot exhaust my heart,
Yet a single jug of fine wine holds another spring.
How eternal are the sun and moon within the gourd (a Daoist metaphor for the immortal realm),
But how many in the mortal world attain longevity?
The poems in Yichuan Jirang Ji express the poet's insights into natural scenery and human circumstances. The first poem suggests that even if one retreats to mountain forests, it is futile if the mind remains unsettled; those truly liberated need not deliberately withdraw from the world, roaming as freely as a heavenly steed across the skies. The second poem, Lament of the Moon, uses the moon's waxing and waning to symbolize the fickleness of human hearts, drawing on the legend of Chang'e (the moon goddess) betraying her vow to convey profound disappointment in human relationships.
Lament of the Flowers depicts the fate of palace women who, like blossoms vying for beauty, rarely win favor—ignored in bud yet fearing storms when in full bloom, a metaphor for life's fleeting glory. Viewing Flowers declares nature's impartiality: though crowds chase spring's radiance, true spring is not found in clamor.
Four short verses—Fallen Flowers, Fragrant Grass, Weeping Willow, and Spring Waters—all use the cycle of plants to reflect life's impermanence: peach blossoms scattered by the wind evoke longing for their unopened promise; grass enduring the rise and fall of dynasties, burned by wildfire yet reborn with spring breezes; willow branches swaying like hearts broken by parting; melting snow flowing in spring streams, carrying sorrows that cannot be held. These poems, seemingly about scenery, are in fact meditations on life, revealing the truth that wealth is as transient as floating clouds and all things move in cycles.
These poems from Yichuan Jirang Ji (Volume 6) depict leisurely life during the spring-summer transition and reflections on human existence. The first poem describes slender, tender new reeds along the shore and boundless misty waters stretching beyond sight. The poet deliberately takes a small boat to admire the scenic beauty of Jiangnan (the "Three Wu" region). Feeling the refreshing breeze, he marvels that his zest for life remains undiminished—how could Heaven abandon him? He keeps simple vegetarian meals ready daily, yet feels ashamed of his lack of concentration when reading Zhuangzi and the Yijing (Book of Changes). While composing poetry, he feels all the world's beauty lies before him, and worldly troubles never furrow his brow. Born in peaceful, uneventful times, he now peacefully spends his twilight years in this tranquil era.
Sent to Longtu Li Shenyan in Late Spring expresses how each year he dreads the deepening of spring, for late spring always brings illness. The melancholy after wine stems from the fleeting joy of small gatherings, while flower-tending days seem perpetually overcast. Time slips away irretrievably, and seasonal changes make his aging heart more sensitive. Only the front corridor offers quiet solitude, where he sits remembering old friends in the wind.
Leisurely Chanting in Early Summer portrays orioles singing amid lush willows—their jubilant songs seem to celebrate this golden age of peace. Long life is no misfortune, for how could the Creator be unkind? As peonies fade, purple cherries ripen; when peonies bloom, mottled bamboo shoots emerge. The unhurried life beneath the trees is true wealth—why compete with nobles for status?
Reply to Kaifeng Prefecture Judge Yao Fuzhou responds to a friend's letter: worldly affairs always contradict our wishes—pressing me to take office is unwise. Rather than brood over such matters, I'd rather debate freely as we once did on West Street. Even with extraordinary talent, what use now that my temples have turned white? The new moon on the horizon remains forever slender—it never darkens its brows to please the world (your letter expresses concern for my well-being, fearing my mountain seclusion may not last).
Source text: Kanripo 漢籍リポジトリ（KR5d0065）; Licence: CC BY-SA 4.0 · Report an error / feedback