This poem by Yan Wan-li gives a delicate impression of how our inner states change constantly, like light on water, and of how transient spiritual experience can sometimes be.  For more on this Southern Sung dynasty poet, see this earlier post.

Reading in the To-chia Pavilion on a Clear Morning

Already a year has gone by
since  I became governor of Ching-ch’i
I can’t complain about my office and residence,
but for some reason I’ve rarely been happy here.
If my servants aren’t sick,
the children are crying.
We were once poor and didn’t have enough to eat,
but it isn’t hunger that’s bothering me now.

Early in the morning I put a book in my sleeve
and climb to the pavilion to do some reading.
The moon and stars are still shining;
there is dew on the ground,
no shutters keep out the wind.
Suddenly I feel my old, sick body
can’t bear clothing any more.
How did I ever get through the recent heat?
The cold is what I really like!
White birds look like butterflies in the distance;
a cicada hums what sounds like a poem.
The pine trees turn my spirit to snow;
I breathe in the icy fragrance of lotus.
In an instant sadness and happiness have disappeared
and I feel as if I’ve left my body.

The children don’t realise what’s happening:
they call me down to eat breakfast.

Translated by Jonathan Chaves