University of Virginia Library

IV

The Old Book of Tang says that Li Po "possessed a
superior talent, a great and tameless spirit, and fantastical

ways of the transcendent mind." In modern terminology
he was a romanticist.

Like Wordsworth he sought the solitude of hills and
lakes. But he was a lover rather than a worshipper of
Nature. He was "enamored of the hills," he says. To
him the cloud-girt peak of Luh Shan, or the hollow glen
of autumn, was not a temple but a home where he felt
most at ease and free to do as he pleased—where he
drank, sang, slept, and meditated. He spent a large
part of his life out of doors, on the roads, among the
flowering trees, and under the stars, writing his innumerable
poems, which are the spontaneous utterances of his
soul, responding, to the song of a mango bird or to the
call of far waterfalls. And his intimate Nature-feeling
gained him admission to a world other than ours, of
which he writes:

Taoism with its early doctrine of inaction and with
its later fanciful superstitions of celestial realms,
and supernatural beings and of death-conquering herbs
and pellets fascinated the poet. Confucian critics, eager
to whitewash him of any serious Taoistic contamination,
declare that he was simply playing with the new-fangled
heresy. But there is no doubt as to his earnestness.
"At fifteen," he writes, "I sought gods and goblins."
The older he grew, the stronger became the hold of

Taoism on his mind. In fact, the utilitarian principle
of Confucian ethics was alien both to his temperament
and to the circumstances of his life. The first thing he
did after his dismissal from the court was to go to Chinan-fu
and receive the Taoist diploma from the high
priest of the sect, "wishing only (says Li Yang-ping) to
return east to Peng-lai and with the winged men ride to
the Scarlet Hill of Immortality." Peng-lai is the paradisical
land of the Taoist, somewhere in the eastern sea.
The poetry of Li Po reflects the gleams of such visionary
worlds. His "Dream of the Sky-land,"[8] rivaling Kubla
Khan in its transcendent beauty and imaginative power,
could not have been written but by Li Po, the Taoist.
Even in superstition and opium there is more than a
Confucian philosophy dreams of.

But mysticism and solitude filled only one half of the
poet's life. For he loved dearly the town and tavern—
so much so that he is censured again by moralists as having
been sordid. Li Po not only took too hearty an interest
in wine and women, but he was also scandalously
frank in advertising his delight by singing their praise in
sweet and alluring terms. In this respect Li Po, like so
many of his associates, was a thorough Elizabethan. Had
the Eight Immortals of the Wine-cup descended from
their Chinese Elysium to the Mermaid Tavern, how happy
they would have been with their doughty rivals in song,
humor, wit, capacity for wine, and ardent and adventurous,
if at times erratic, spirit!

Li Po "ate like a hungry tiger," says Wei Hao, who
should know; while according to another authority, "his
big voice could be heard in heaven." In his early youth
he exhibited a swashbuckling propensity, took to errantry,

and learned swordmanship, and even slashed
several combatants with his cutlass.

"Though less than seven feet in height, I am strong
enough to meet ten thousand men," he boasted. It is
hardly necessary, however, to point out the rare and
lovable personality of the poet, who made friends with
everybody—lord or prince, Buddhist or Taoist, courtier
or scholar, country gentlemen or town brewer; and
addressed with the same affectionate regard alike the emperor
in the palace and the poor singing-girl on the
city street of Chang-an.

In his mature age Li Po, despite his natural inclination
and temperament, cherished the normal Chinese ambition
to serve the state in a high official capacity and
try the empire-builder's art.[9] It was with no small anticipation
that he went to the court and discoursed on the
affairs of the government before the emperor. But he
was only allowed to write poems and cover his vexations
with the cloak of dissipation. Later when amid the
turmoil of the civil war he was called to join the powerful
Prince of Yung, his aspirations revived, only to be
smothered in the bitterness of defeat and banishment.
The last few years of his life were pathetic. Broken in
spirit and weary with the burden of sorrow and age, but
with his patriotic fervor still burning in his heart, he
watched with anxiety the sorry plight of his country.

The rebellion of An Lu-shan and its aftermath were
not wholly quelled till the very year of the poet's death.

Then, there was the inevitable pessimism of the old
world. The thought of the evanescence of all temporal
things brought him solace for life's disappointments, and
at the same time subdued his great tameless spirit. The
Chinese race was already old at Li Po's time, with a retrospect
of milleniums on whose broad expanse the dynasties
of successive ages were like bubbles. What
Shakespeare came to realize in his mellowed years
about the "cloud-capt towers and gorgeous palaces," was
an obsession that seized on Li Po early in life. Thus it
is that a pensive mood pervades his poetry, and many of
his Bacchanalian verses are tinged with melancholy.
Even when he is singing exultantly at a banquet table, his
saddest thought will out, saying "Hush, hush! All
things pass with the waters of the east-flowing river."