桃花源記

The Peach Blossom Spring

In the Taiyuan [or Kangyuan] era of the Jin, a man of Wuling made his livelihood by fishing. One day, following the course of a stream [or walking along a stream], he lost track of how far he had gone. Suddenly he came upon a forest of peach trees lining both banks for several hundred paces. There were no other trees [or grasses or trees] within; the fragrant grasses [or {{2}}] were fresh and beautiful [or fragrant and warm], and fallen petals swirled in profusion. The fisherman found this exceedingly strange. He went further, wishing to reach the end of the forest.

At the end of the forest, where the stream's source [or where he saw a mountain / found a mountain] lay, there was a mountain with a small opening, within which there seemed to be a faint light. He left his boat [or vessel] and entered through the opening. At first it was extremely narrow, barely wide enough for a person to pass through. After walking several tens of steps [or forty or fifty steps], it suddenly opened up into a broad, level expanse. The land was flat and open, and the houses stood in neat rows [or were connected]. There were fine fields, beautiful ponds, and groves of mulberry and bamboo. Paths crisscrossed the fields, and the crowing of cocks and the barking of dogs could be heard from farm to farm. The men and women who came and went, working the fields, were dressed just as people outside were dressed. The elderly and the young alike [or those with yellow hair and those with hanging tufts of hair] were all content and happy at heart.

When they saw the fisherman, they were greatly astonished. They asked where he had come from, and he answered them fully. Then they invited him to their homes, where they set out wine and killed chickens to prepare a feast. When the villagers heard of this man, they all came to inquire. They told him that their ancestors, fleeing the disorders [or troubles] of the Qin era, had led their wives, children, and fellow villagers to this remote place, never to emerge again, and so they had lost all contact with the outside world. They asked what age it was now. They did not even know of the Han dynasty, much less the Wei or the Jin. The fisherman related to them in detail all that he had heard, and they all sighed with regret. The rest of the villagers each in turn invited him to their homes, and all set out wine and food. After staying several days, he took his leave. The people of the place told him, "It is not worth mentioning this to those outside."

Once he had emerged, he found his boat [or vessel], and following the path he had come [or pointing toward the road / marking the road], he left markers everywhere along the way. When he reached the commandery seat, he went to the grand administrator and told him what had happened. The grand administrator immediately sent men to follow him, but when they sought out the markers he had left, they lost their way and could not find the path again.

Liu Ziji of Nanyang was a man of noble character. When he heard of this, he joyfully made plans to go [or resolved to go in person]. Before he could set out, he fell ill and died. After that, no one sought the ford again.

The house of Ying disrupted Heaven's order,

And wise men fled that age.

Huang and Qi went to Mount Shang;

These people, too, departed.

Their traces gradually vanished and were buried,

Their paths became overgrown and abandoned.

They called to one another to till the fields,

And at sunset each rested where he would.

Mulberries and bamboo cast abundant shade;

Beans and grains were sown in their proper seasons.

Spring silkworms yielded long [or fine] silk;

Autumn harvests owed no royal tax.

Wild roads dimmed the traffic between them,

Yet cocks crowed and dogs barked from farm to farm.

Their sacrificial rites followed ancient ways;

Their garments knew no new designs.

Children and youths sang as they walked;

The grey-haired roamed in joy [or greeted one another in delight].

When grasses flourished, they knew the season was mild;

When trees withered, they knew the wind was fierce.

Though they had no calendars or records,

The four seasons formed their own years.

Content and filled with joy,

What need had they for the toil of cunning and wit?

This strange tale lay hidden for five hundred years,

Then one morning opened a realm of the divine.

But the pure and the base flow from different sources,

And soon it withdrew again into dark concealment.

I ask you, roving scholars of the world—

How can you fathom what lies beyond the dust and clamor [or beyond the dusty world]?

I would gladly tread the light wind,

And rise on high to seek my kindred spirit.