PEACH-BLOSSOM SPRING

During the T’ai-yüan years [376–397 A.D.] of the Chin Dynasty, there was a man in Wu-ling who caught fish for a living. One day he went up a stream, and soon didn’t know how far he’d gone. Suddenly, he came upon a peach orchard in full bloom. For hundreds of feet, there was nothing but peach trees crowding in over the banks. And in the confusion of fallen petals, there were lovely, scented flowers. The fisherman was amazed. Wanting to see how far the orchard went, he continued on.

The trees ended at the foot of a mountain, where a spring fed the stream from a small cave. It seemed as if there might be a light inside, so the fisherman left his boat and stepped in. At first, the cave was so narrow he could barely squeeze through. But he kept going and, after a few dozen feet, it opened out into broad daylight. There, on a plain stretching away, austere houses were graced with fine fields and lovely ponds. Dikes and paths crossed here and there among mulberries and bamboo. Roosters and dogs called back and forth. Coming and going in the midst of all this, there were men and women tending the fields. Their clothes were just like those worn by the people outside. And whether they were old with white hair or children in pigtails, they were all happy and of themselves content.

When they saw the fisherman, they were terribly surprised and asked where he had come from. Once he had answered all their questions, they insisted on taking him back home. And soon, they had set out wine and killed chickens for dinner. When the others in the village heard about this man, they all came to ask about him. They told him how, long ago, to escape those years of turmoil during the Ch’in Dynasty [221–207 B.C.], the village ancestors gathered their wives and children, and with their neighbors came to this distant place. And never leaving, they’d kept themselves cut-off from the people outside ever since. So now they wondered what dynasty it was. They’d never heard of the Han, let alone Wei or Chin. As the fisherman carefully told them everything he knew, they all sighed in sad amazement. Soon, each of the village families had invited him to their house, where they also served wine and food.

After staying for some days, the fisherman prepared to leave these people. As he was going, they said There’s no need to tell the people outside. He returned to his boat and started back, careful to remember each place along the way.

When he got back home, he went to tell the prefect what had happened, and the prefect sent some men to retrace the route with him. They tried to follow the landmarks he remembered, but they were soon lost and finally gave up the search.

Liu Tzu-chi, who lived in Nan-yang, was a recluse of great honor and esteem. When he heard about this place, he joyfully prepared to go there. But before he could, he got sick and passed away. Since then, no one’s asked the Way.

Ch’in’s First Emperor ravaged the sense

heaven gives things, and wise people fled.

Huang and Ch’i left for Shang Mountain,

and these villagers were also never seen

again. Covering all trace of their flight,

the path they came on slowly grew over and

vanished. They worked hard tending fields

together, and come dusk, they all rested.

When mulberry and bamboo shade thickened,

planting time for beans and millet came.

Spring brought the silkworm’s long thread,

and autumn harvests without taxes. There,

overgrown paths crossing back and forth,

roosters calling to the bark of dogs,

people used old-style bowls for ritual

and wore clothes long out of fashion. Kids

wandered at ease, singing. Old-timers

happily went around visiting friends.

Things coming into blossom promised mild

summer days, and bare trees sharp winds.

Without calendars to keep track, earth’s

four seasons of themselves became years,

and happy, more than content, no one

worried over highbrow insights. A marvel

hidden away five hundred years, this

charmed land was discovered one morning,

but pure and impure spring from different

realms, so it soon returned to solitude.

Wandering in the world, who can fathom

what lies beyond its clamor and dust. O,

how I long to rise into thin air and

ride the wind in search of my own kind.