I read the Drunken Old Man's prose, and imagine his brush like a rafter.
Only Dongpo truly knew the Old Man, calling him a flying immortal now.
Weiming, a later luminary, his writing too hangs like stars and constellations.
Once he left the worldly bustle, returning to his nest by the moon's wheel.
The grand elegance long absent, Master Liu is skilled and virtuous.
Where his brush and ink surge forth, no resistance stands before him.
The calligraphy once seated in place, spreads through ten thousand mouths in a day.
Not shamed by Yan Lugong, in changed place it would be the same.
Leisurely days with no affairs, daily I wander the five-acre garden.
Books and paintings cost over a hundred gold, flowers and stones expense myriad coins.
Zizhen hid at the valley's mouth, Mojie dwelt in Wangchuan.
Yuanming drunk on the road, Zhizhang slept at the well's bottom.
The flavor of these several masters, who can compare who came first or last?
You, among them, encompass all four in full.
The lofty hall admits sun and moon, bamboos and trees stand dense and linked.
Gaze upon those endless views, delight in these boundless years.
The front mountains seem to fly here, leaning to break the southwestern sky.
Vast air washes the green jade, sunny light begets purple mist.
Truly I suspect fusion and formation differ, truly fear Creation's partiality.
Imagine the man within the mountains, hence I summon the recluse's verse.
My home dwells in Luoyang, the lane links to the Yi River.
My hut shaded by clear bamboos, receives no clamor of carriage and horse.
Once I ascend your hall, stroking matters fills me with melancholy.
Though acquaintance shallow, words already deep; in excellence we polish each other.
Yet coming to follow your staff and shoes, already prepared several clogs worn through.
I send a note to Master Wang, carrying wine to face the spring.