I often think of Confucius in ancient days,
With three thousand disciples gathered in his school.
Vast indeed, the unfolding of the Sage's Way,
With songs and lectures by the banks of Zou and Lu.
Establishing oneself not lured by profit or desire,
Utmost sincerity only learning righteousness and benevolence.
Graceful in virtue and arts, ever more polished,
Resplendent glory grows brighter day by day.
Pursuing dust, striving earnestly with urgency,
Forgetting fatigue, guiding kindly with patience.
Outward honor—did he seek ministerial rank?
Inner joy lay solely in probing the truth of Dao.
Thus for ten thousand ages he serves as model,
Looked up to, revered, like the North Star.
I have long cherished Mencius's words with deep affection,
Their source profound, the enterprise pure and unalloyed.
Gaining a lord, he wished to better the world,
In a narrow lane, poor, he cared only for self-cultivation.
The whole world then called him impractical and remote,
Advance or retreat, what hindrance to his bending and stretching?
The vulgar multitude—how could they be relied upon?
With Dao, he wandered at ease, able to follow his own path.
Suddenly glancing at those ten thousand bushels of salary,
They were like gathering and scattering clouds in the sky.
Then I know what the noble man learns and does—
His will is to care for Dao, not to worry about poverty.
Junyi, a scholar from Jiande,
Diligent in learning, vast as the sea, tempered to purity.
In prime years, determined to refute heterodox doctrines,
Vigorous and strong, laboring to uproot thorns and brambles.
Releasing dense forests of catalpa and wolfberry timber,
Luxuriant branches in full bloom spread youthful splendor.
Reading books till dusk, then lighting candles,
Composing essays, often sitting till dawn.
Who pities Yan's gourd and diet of wild herbs?
He pities himself, Fan's rice steamer gathering dust.
Often saying external things are never his concern,
Opening scrolls, he can pass successive ten-day periods.
Sometimes wielding his brush to pour down timely rain,
Only hearing thunderclaps, flying chariot wheels.
Clouds part, mist disperses, then clear skies return,
Clear breeze rustling, without a speck of dust.
Fine flowers, beautiful trees compete in loveliness,
High mountains, distant peaks all rugged and steep.
Sometimes holding forth, listeners crane their ears,
Again like a heavenly steed surpassing Kunlun.
Looking back at the common nags by the thousand,
Tired sinews, spent strength—how could they keep pace?
I sigh at my own talent and understanding, stubborn and shallow,
Yet daily in the study I can stay close to you.
Your diligence and care for me are such as this,
Surely it should make one long inscribe it on his sash.