: The poem about pine fence was completed, and Master Meng praised it highly.

Five days later.

That day, it was Meng Wenlang's turn to lecture at Jiazhai.

Meng Wenlang was wearing a light gray linen robe made of thin and breathable fabric.

He walked behind the lecture table, sat down, took the teacup handed to him by the servant, took a sip of tea, then put down the teacup and looked up at the twenty or so students sitting below: "Today we will not be lecturing on Zhuangzi."

The students below the hall looked at each other, wondering what Mr. Meng's intentions were.

Meng Wenlang smiled faintly: "Today, I have a different method for lecturing. Each of you will compose a poem on the spot, with no restrictions on the subject matter. Four-character, five-character, or mixed-style poems are all acceptable. You have one incense stick's time limit. After you finish, hand them in, and I will comment on each one."

These words immediately caused a stir in the hall.

The Eastern Jin Dynasty was an era in which poetry flourished. Poetry was not merely prose; it was also an essential skill for aristocratic families to socialize, engage in refined conversation, and showcase their cultural refinement.

In the ninth year of the Yonghe era, Wang Xizhi, Xie An, and more than forty other literati gathered at the Orchid Pavilion in Shanyin, Kuaiji, to enjoy a leisurely gathering of wine cups on the winding stream. They composed poems on the spot, which were later compiled into the "Orchid Pavilion Collection," a story that has become a legend.

All the students at Wansong Academy's Jiazhai School were capable of writing poetry; some were simply good at it, while others were less so.

At that moment, some people were delighted, feeling that this was a good opportunity to show off their talents; some people frowned slightly, feeling anxious in their hearts; and some people remained calm, grinding ink with their heads down, already starting to draft their ideas.

Zhu Yingtai glanced at Liang Shanbo and lowered her voice, asking, "Brother Liang, are you confident?"

Liang Shanbo smiled slightly but did not reply.

His gaze fell on the paper in front of him, and he secretly made plans in his mind.

He had read many poems in his previous life and could remember almost all of them clearly. As for composing poetry, any one of his poems could far surpass the vast majority of works of this era.

The problem is, which one should we choose?

The poetry of the Eastern Jin Dynasty was dominated by metaphysical poetry.

Metaphysical poetry, as the name suggests, is poetry aimed at expounding metaphysical philosophy.

The Eastern Jin Dynasty was an era when metaphysics was very popular. Scholars admired pure conversation and discussed Laozi, Zhuangzi and the Book of Changes. This trend naturally permeated into poetry creation.

Metaphysical poetry is characterized by "excessive emphasis on reasoning and blandness," meaning it talks too much about principles, lacks literary flair, and is tasteless to read.

Metaphysical poets like Sun Chuo and Xu Xun filled their poems with words like "Tao," "mystery," "nothingness," and "existence," making them sound like rhyming philosophical essays.

When Liang Shanbo read these poems in his previous life, he found them utterly tasteless.

But the scholars of this era particularly admired this style. If you wrote a poem without profound philosophical principles, they would think you were shallow and lacked intellectual depth.

After much thought, Liang Shanbo came up with an idea.

He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote a poem on the paper.

This is a classic poem by Wang Wei, a great poet of the Tang Dynasty. However, he wrote it more than 300 years earlier and changed the title.

After he finished writing, he looked at it, confirmed that it was feasible, then put down his pen and gently blew on the ink on the paper.

Zhu Yingtai leaned closer for a glance, her eyes lighting up as she looked at Liang Shanbo with a surprised expression: "Brother Liang, this poem..."

Liang Shanbo smiled, raised a finger, and put it to his lips.

Zhu Yingtai nodded in understanding and looked at her own poem again. She had already written two lines and was satisfied with them. However, after reading Liang's poem, she was no longer satisfied with her two lines and decided to rewrite them.

Half an hour later.

Wang Shu collected the students' poems and presented them to Meng Wenlang.

Meng Wenlang looked at each piece one by one, some he glanced at and put aside, some he looked at for a few more breaths, occasionally nodding slightly, occasionally shaking his head gently, but the one that took him the longest was Liang Shanbo's poem.

The hall was completely silent.

The students held their breath, waiting for the comments.

After reading the last draft of the poem, Meng Wenlang looked up, his gaze sweeping across everyone's faces before finally settling on Liang Shanbo.

"Liang Shanbo," he called out.

Liang Shanbo stood up: "Your student is here."

Meng Wenlang held a manuscript in his hand and asked in a calm tone, "What is the title of your poem?"

Liang Shanbo replied, "Sir, the poem is titled 'Pine Fence'."

Meng Wenlang raised an eyebrow slightly: "Why this topic?"

Liang Shanbo replied, "A few days ago, at dusk, I went for a walk in the back mountain with Zhu Jiuling. We passed by Songzha and stayed outside the fence for a while, listening to the wind in the pines and looking at the mountain scenery. I was moved by what I saw, so I wrote this poem today."

Meng Wenlang nodded, gesturing for him to sit down, then unfolded the poem and began to read it aloud slowly to the audience:

"In the empty mountains, no one is seen, but the sound of voices can be heard."

The setting sun casts its rays into the deep forest, its light reflecting again on the green moss.

Not content with just reading it, Meng Wenlang had the students circulate the poem manuscript again.

While the students were reading the poems, Meng Wenlang slowly sipped his tea, his expression revealing neither joy nor anger.

Some students frowned, some pondered, and some looked puzzled.

Zhu Yingtai glanced at Liang Shanbo. Liang Shanbo remained calm, sitting there with an expression as usual.

When the poem was returned to Meng Wenlang, he asked, "What do you all think of this poem?"

There was a moment of silence in the hall.

Jia Boyang was the first to stand up and say, "Sir, this poem has only twenty characters, not a single word of it is profound, not a single sentence of it is philosophical. It is written in a way that is ethereal and spiritual, but where is the 'profound'? Where is the 'Tao'?"

After Jia Boyang finished speaking, several students nodded in agreement.

Wang Shu, however, had a different opinion. He stood up and said, "Sir, I think this poem is quite interesting. 'In the empty mountains, no one is seen, but the sound of voices is heard.' There are clearly no people, yet the sound of voices can be heard. Isn't this the principle of 'existence' and 'non-existence'? Zhuangzi said, 'The greatest sound is silent,' and this poem, 'but the sound of voices is heard,' seems to have the same meaning."

Gu Jun stood up and said, "Sir, I also think this poem is quite good. Especially the last two lines, 'The setting sun shines into the deep forest, and shines again on the green moss.' The scene of the setting sun shining into the deep forest and shining on the green moss is so vivid that I feel as if I have seen it with my own eyes. It is rare for a poem to be written to this extent."

Many students in the hall initially thought Liang Shanbo's poem was bad, but now that Wang Shu and Gu Jun had both stood up to praise it, no one dared to say that the poem was bad anymore.

Jia Boyang looked somewhat embarrassed.

Meng Wenlang gestured for Wang Shu, Gu Jun, and Jia Boyang to sit down, then turned his gaze to Liang Shanbo: "Liang Shanbo, tell me yourself, what is the purpose of your poem?"

Liang Shanbo stood up, cupped his hands in greeting to Meng Wenlang and his classmates, and said in a clear and powerful voice, "When I wrote this poem, what I was thinking about was a line from Zhuangzi's 'Heaven and Earth,' which says, 'Look at the darkness, hear the silence.'"

In the empty mountains, no one is seen; this is "seeing in the darkness." Yet, the sound of voices is heard; this is "hearing in the silence." Deep in the mountains and valleys, no one is visible, yet the voices of people can be heard from afar, faint and indistinct, seemingly real yet illusory. Is this not precisely the "dark and gloomy" state described in Zhuangzi?

Meng Wenlang nodded slightly, without interrupting him.

Liang Shanbo continued, "The last two lines, 'The setting sun shines into the deep forest, and shines again on the green moss,' remind me of the principle of 'existence and non-existence arising from each other.'"

As the sun sets and its afterglow shines back, the once dark forest is illuminated. The light shines on the moss, and the moss comes to life from nothingness, gaining color, life, and a sense of existence.

But this light is fleeting. As soon as the sun sets, the deep forest returns to darkness, and the moss disappears into nothingness. This interplay of light and darkness, existence and non-existence, is the natural order of all things in the universe.

I didn't use the word "mysterious" or "Tao" in my poem, but I believe that profound principles don't necessarily need to be expressed in abstract language. Conveying these principles through imagery, sound, and the interplay of light and shadow might be more subtle and thought-provoking than direct explanation.

He finished speaking and bowed slightly.

The hall fell silent once more.

Everyone was engrossed in his words, pondering their meaning, including Meng Wenlang.

Zhu Yingtai turned her head to look at Liang Shanbo's profile, and her admiration for him grew again.

She admired Liang's exceptional talent, and also admired his composure and calm demeanor when answering questions or explaining his poems.

After chewing for a moment, Meng Wenlang looked at Jia Boyang, then at the other students who looked puzzled, and slowly said, "Some of you just said that this poem 'doesn't contain a single word about the profound,' and therefore isn't up to par. You're right, this poem indeed doesn't use the word 'profound' or 'the Way.' But I want to ask you a question: Must profound principles always be expressed in profound language?"

No one answered from inside the hall.

Meng Wenlang continued, "The two lines in Zhuangzi's 'Heaven and Earth,' 'Seeing the darkness, hearing the silence,' are themselves about the invisibility and inaudibility of the 'Tao.' The Tao is invisible and inaudible, yet it is omnipresent. Liang Shanbo's poem is exactly about this principle."

In the empty mountains, no one is seen; this is "seeing in the darkness." But one hears the sound of voices; this is "hearing in silence." Think about it: deep in the mountains, you can clearly not see people, yet you can hear their voices. Isn't this the state of "Tao"—that of being neither here nor there, seemingly real yet illusory?

As for the last two lines, "The setting sun shines into the deep forest, and illuminates the green moss again," their brilliance lies in the fact that he did not describe the darkness of the deep forest, but rather a beam of light; he did not describe the silence of the moss, but rather the instant the light shone on it. This beam of light, this instant, is the manifestation of the "Tao."

The ancients said, "A grain of sand contains a world, a flower a heaven." In this deep forest, a ray of setting sun, a patch of moss—aren't they also worlds? Aren't they also embodiments of the "Tao"?

Meng Wenlang paused, then looked at Liang Shanbo again, his eyes full of admiration: "If Sun Xinggong or Xu Xuandu saw this poem, they might not appreciate it. But if people like Wang Xizhi or Xie Anshi saw it, they might admire it."

Sun Xinggong and Xu Xuandu are Sun Chuo and Xu Xun.

Wang Youjun and Xie Anshi are the famous Wang Xizhi and Xie An, one from the Langya Wang clan and the other from the Chenjun Xie clan, both powerful families of the Eastern Jin Dynasty.

Meng Wenlang picked up Liang Shanbo's poem manuscript, read it again, and sighed, "So ethereal, so effortless; I've never seen a young person write such poetry. Liang Shanbo, you're excellent!"

Liang Shanbo bowed and said, "Sir, you flatter me. I am ashamed."

Meng Wenlang waved his hand, gesturing for him to sit down, and then addressed the crowd: "All of you should take Liang Shanbo as your model. Writing poetry is not about piling up fancy words or showing off profound theories, but about using the most concise language to convey the most profound meaning. This poem, with its twenty characters, has not a single superfluous word or a single perfunctory sentence. This is what makes a good poem."

At this point, he suddenly fell silent for a long time, then looked at Liang Shanbo and said, "Tomorrow is a day off. The day after tomorrow at noon, Liang Shanbo, come to my Songzha. I have something to say to you!"

Upon hearing this, most of the students in the hall were stunned.

Wang Shu and Gu Jun exchanged a glance, both revealing a subtle expression.

They knew what it meant when Meng Wenlang invited Liang Shanbo to Songzha in front of all the students of Jiazhai.

Jia Boyang glanced at Liang Shanbo, a look of jealousy on his face.

Zhu Yingtai looked at Liang Shanbo, her face beaming with joy.