Third-generation True Persons sought to retire, fourth-generation Daoists shouldered the burden

Flowers fallen were wounds hard to mend; orioles clamored—how could one listen closely?

Cherish spring, though spring was already late; treasure the grasses, lush and green.

In late spring, peach blossoms withered, and the courtyard gate, shut tight for many days, opened again. The white-haired old Daoist strolled through the mountain woods, admiring the scenery of Floating Cloud Mountain. His Divine spirit entered every blade of grass and tree, every stream and stone, every flower and leaf. Entrusting his feelings to nature and soothing and tempering his disposition, he also surveyed anew the vastly transformed cultivation grounds.

He climbed peak after peak, crossed range after range, and waded through river after river. From the summit of the main peak, he watched twilight snow across a thousand mountains; in silent, secluded valleys, he listened to murmuring streams. His Daoist nature was pure and tranquil, his heart at peace. Within the lake of his heart, the Floating Cloud mountain range was reflected:

A stone path led through seclusion to the azure sky; clear winds, white clouds, and waters intertwined.

These emerald woods must be an abode of Immortals; no mortal fields of rice or millet met the eye.

After wandering for a day, Xuanming returned to his courtyard and tended the plants. Raising his hand, he summoned a Daoist scripture from the third floor of the Scripture Pavilion. By moonlight and candlelight, he bent over his desk to savor it, enjoying the quiet serenity of the night as the years flowed peacefully by. His efficiency in contemplating the Dao doubled.

At midnight, after gathering the moon's radiance, Xuanming lay on his side and slept fully clothed, breathing clouds and rosy mist in and out through his nose and mouth.

Early the next morning, beneath bright skies, drifting cloud shadows, and brilliant dawn