The contented man can be happy with what appears to be useless.  He can find worthwhile occupation in forests and mountains.  He stays in a small cottage and associates with the simple.  He would not exchange his worn clothes for the imperial robes, nor the load on his back for a four-horse carriage.  He leaves the jade in the mountain, and the pearls in the sea.  Wherever he goes, whatever he does, he can be happy – he knows when to stop.  He does not pick the brief-blossoming flower; he does not travel the dangerous road.  To him the ten thousand possessions are dust in the wind.  He sings as he travels among the green mountains.

He finds sheltering branches more comfortable than red-gated mansions, the plough in his hand more rewarding than the prestige of titles and banners, fresh mountain water more satisfying than the feasts of the wealthy.  He acts in true freedom.  What can competition for honours mean to him?  What attraction can anxiety and greed possibly hold?  Through simplicity he has Dao, and from Dao, everything.  He sees the light in the “darkness”, the clear in the “cloudy”, the speed in the “slowness”, the full in the “empty”.  The cook creating a meal with his own hands has as much honour in his eyes as a famous singer or high official. He has no profits to gain, no salary to lose; no applause, no criticism.  When he looks up it is not in envy.  When he looks down it is not with arrogance.  Many look at him,