The Writings of Liu Fang Yuan 流芳園

Freshwater Pavilion (Huo Shui Xuan 活水軒)

In cold water from a pebbly creek, early flavor lingers; from the new purple clay tea ware, spring blossoms waft. 

小石冷泉留早味　紫泥新品泛春華

Framing the Chinese Garden’s teashop, the two lines of this couplet come from a poem by Mei Yaochen (1002–1060) that describes the annual frenzy surrounding the arrival of newly processed tea in the capital city. Mei writes that the flavor of this early spring tea is so exquisite that even the finest delicacies in the land (such as watershield porridge) no longer impress those who have tasted it.

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“Following the Rhyme Pattern of Grand Councilor Du’s Poem to Cai Junmo Thanking Him for Sending Tea” 依韻和杜相公謝蔡君謨寄茶 Mei Yaochen 梅堯臣 (1002–1060)

Each year the emperor samples Longbei tea. The tea officials hurry the farmers to pick leaves before the rain. Once the teacakes have entered the government offices, officials compete in tasting them and vie to convey them to the Grand Tutor’s house. In cold water from a pebbly creek, early flavor lingers; from the new purple clay tea ware, spring blossoms waft.  As cultured as the officials of Wu may be, after tasting this tea, even watershield porridge no longer receives their boasting.

Love for the Lotus Pavilion (Ai Lian Xie 愛蓮榭)

Overlooking a pond filled with lotuses, this pavilion's name was inspired by a short essay by the philosopher Zhou Dunyi (1017–1073). “On the Love for the Lotus” proclaims Zhou’s admiration for this flower that rises unsoiled from muddy lakebeds. For Zhou the lotus becomes a paragon of the virtues of a Confucian gentleperson, who ought to remain unaffected by the turbidity of society.

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“On the Love for the Lotus” 愛蓮說 Zhou Dunyi 周敦頤 (1017–1073)

The flowers of the plants and trees of water and land that are worthy of our love are many. In the Jin dynasty (265–420 CE), Tao Yuanming (ca. 365­–427 CE) loved only the chrysanthemum; from the Tang dynasty (618–906 CE) onward, the people of the age deeply love the tree peony. I love only the lotus, rising unsullied from the mud, bathing in the clear ripples but never with meretricious intent, wholesome within and straight without, neither spreading like a vine nor sprouting from a branch, its fragrance growing ever purer as it spreads about, standing tall and erect, to be observed from afar but not dallied with up close.

I say: the chrysanthemum is the recluse of flowers; the tree peony, a wealthy man of standing; the lotus, however, is the gentleman among the flowers. Alas, after Tao, rarely does one hear of those who so love the chrysanthemum, and who loves the lotus as I do myself? It is the love of the tree peony that now suits the crowd!

Adapted from a translation by Duncan Campbell.

(Photograph by Martha Benedict.)

Clear and Transcendent Pavilion (Qing Yue Tai 清越臺)

Idly strolling in springtime, we leave the painted halls; among the plums and willows, I cannot bear the fragrance! 

春望逍遙出畫堂　間梅遮柳不勝芳

This couplet is drawn from Tang Xianzu’s (1550–1616) The Peony Pavilion, a beloved work of Chinese opera published around the same time as William Shakespeare’s (1564–1616) Romeo and Juliet. Consisting of 55 acts and running over 18 hours, The Peony Pavilion recounts the love story of a young woman and the beautiful scholar she encounters when dreaming in her garden.

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The Peony Pavilion 牡丹亭, “Scene 10: The Interrupted Dream” 驚夢 (excerpt) Tang Xianzu 湯顯祖 (1550–1616)

For a heart burdened by spring and limbs now lax from garden strolling, there is no need of incense-aired brocaded covers to entice to slumber. Ah, Heaven, Let the dream I dreamed be not yet fled too far. Idly strolling in springtime, we left the painted halls; among the plums and willows, I could not bear the fragrance!

Translation adapted from Tang Xianzu, The Peony Pavilion, trans. Cyril Birch (2nd ed., Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 52–53.

Reflections in the Stream and Fragrance of Orchids (Ying Shui Lan Xiang 映水蘭香)

A lone pavilion bows before flowing waters; myriad bamboo draw the refreshing breeze. 

一亭俯流水　萬竹引清風

This couplet was compiled from characters used in the “Preface to the Orchid Pavilion Gathering” by Wang Xizhi (ca. 303–ca. 361 CE). The “Preface” describes a gathering of poets who played an elegant drinking game: floating wine cups down a garden stream, they challenged each other to compose a verse or take a drink whenever a cup reached them. Later writers took pleasure in using the characters from Wang’s preface to write new couplets like this.

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“Preface to the Orchid Pavilion Gathering” 蘭亭集序 (excerpt) Wang Xizhi 王羲之 (ca. 303–ca. 361 CE)

In the ninth year of the Yonghe reign (353 CE), early in the last month of spring, there was a gathering at the Orchid Pavilion on the northern slopes of the Kuaiji Mountains… The place was one of mighty mountains and towering ridges covered with lush forests and tall bamboo, where a clear stream with swirling eddies cast back a sparkling light upon both shores. From this we cut a winding channel in which to float our winecups, and around this everyone took their appointed seats. True, we did not have the harps and flutes of a great feast, but a cup of wine and a song served well enough to free our most hidden feelings…

Translation adapted from Stephen Owen, ed. and trans., An Anthology of Chinese Literature: Beginnings to 1911 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1996), 283.

Corridor of Refreshing Sound (Qing Yin Lang 清音廊)

The name of this corridor, which threads among the Chinese Garden’s collection of penjing (miniature container gardens, similar to bonsai), is drawn from a verse by Zuo Si (ca. 250–305 CE) celebrating hermits’ life of solitude. Zuo famously claimed that a recluse has no need for musical instruments, as “the mountains and rivers themselves have a refreshing sound.”

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“Calling to the Recluse” 招隱詩 Zuo Si 左思 (ca. 250–305)

I leaned on my staff and called to the recluse, whose weed-grown path is blocked now as ever. No structures are built in the caves on the cliff, yet a zither sounds among the hills. White clouds halt on the shadowed ridge; red petals gleam in sunlit groves. Stony streams scour their agates and jades; fine fins surface and sink. There is no need for harps or flutes; the mountains and streams themselves have a refreshing sound. And why depend on whistling or song, when tree clumps hum so movingly? Dried grains are mixed with fall’s chrysanthemums; hidden orchids are inserted in folds of gowns. As I pace here, pausing, my feet grow weary— I would cast down the pins of my officer’s cap.

Translation adapted from Stephen Owen, ed. and trans., An Anthology of Chinese Literature: Beginnings to 1911 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1996), 273.

(Photograph by Beth Collier.)

Stargazing Tower (Wang Xing Lou 望星樓)

How many miles does the Milky Way extend? Its stars vie in shining forth.

雲漢幾萬里　星宇爭耀芒

This couplet is taken from a poem by Mei Yaochen (1002–1060), who likened talented officials to stars in the Milky Way competing to outshine their rivals. Framing the Chinese Garden’s Stargazing Tower, the couplet points to the astral bodies observed from the Mt. Wilson Observatory (visible atop the mountain peak to the north)—and to the many brilliant sites in the garden itself.