岳陽樓記岳阳楼记

In the spring of the fourth year of Qingli, Teng Zijing was banished to be governor of Baling. In the following year, the government ran smoothly and the people were at peace, and everything that had been neglected was taken up again. So he rebuilt Yueyang Tower, enlarged its old design, and had poems and rhapsodies by famous writers of the Tang and of our own time carved upon it. He asked me to write an account to record it.

As I see it, the finest scenery of Baling is all in the one lake, Dongting. It holds the distant mountains in its mouth and swallows the Yangzi; it is vast and surging, and stretches without limit. The morning light and the evening shadow bring ten thousand changes of mood. This is the great view from Yueyang Tower, and earlier writers have described it fully. But to the north it reaches the Wu Gorges, and to the south it extends to the Xiao and Xiang rivers. Exiled officials and wandering poets often gather here. Are their feelings at the sight of things not bound to differ?

When there are long, dense rains and the skies stay closed for a month, when a cold wind howls in anger and muddy waves crash against the sky, when sun and stars hide their light and the mountains vanish from sight, when merchants and travellers cannot go on, masts topple and oars break, and in the gathering dusk tigers roar and monkeys cry: then whoever climbs this tower will feel that he has left his home and longs for it, fears slander and dreads mockery. Everything he sees is bleak, and he is moved to the depths of sorrow.

But when spring is mild and the light is bright, and the waves are still; when sky above and sky below make one expanse of blue for ten thousand acres; when the gulls on the sand fly and gather, the bright-scaled fish swim and dive, and the angelica on the shore and the orchids on the islets are lush and green; or when the long mist clears completely and the bright moon shines for a thousand miles, its floating light leaping like gold and its still reflection sinking like a jade disc, and the fishermen's songs answer one another: there is no end to such joy. Then whoever climbs this tower will feel his heart opened and his spirit refreshed, honour and disgrace both forgotten. Holding his wine in the breeze, he will be filled with happiness.

Ah, I have tried to find the hearts of the humane men of old. They may have been different from both of these. Why? They were not made glad by things, nor made sad by their own fortunes. When they were high in the halls of court, they worried about the people. When they were far away on the rivers and lakes, they worried about their ruler. So they worried when they were advanced, and worried when they were sent away. Then when were they happy? Surely they would say: "Be the first to worry about the world's worries, and the last to enjoy the world's joys." Ah, without such people, with whom would I go?

Written on the fifteenth day of the ninth month of the sixth year.