Have you not seen, Sir, this master with immortal bones in his ears and nose?
Calling himself a madman, yet within him lies substance.
For thirty years he lectured at Jinhua,
Treating dukes and ministers, their caps and tablets, as child's play.
At Qingmen, his conduct rivaled that of Xie K'er,
His vigorous brushwork linked him to Wang Xianzhi.
In Chang'an, plain silk nearly covered with his calligraphy,
Cherished and preserved by its owners.
He often sighed that the Two Shus were not worth mentioning,
And said again the Four Haos were often withered.
Last year, lying ill for many weeks,
Spirits and ghosts filled the court, scheming for this elder.
His eldest son wept blood, pleading with the Director of Fate,
His young daughter knitted her brows, reciting the Lingbao scriptures.
Then, like Jianzi, he returned to life,
And further attained longevity like Hongya.
He petitioned the northern palace gate, speaking of receiving registers,
Unhitching his carriage in the eastern province, wishing to cultivate the Way.
At first, hearing of his journey, I still doubted,
But indeed he reached our sovereign, who called it good.
His old home in Shanyin became an immortal altar,
On the lake's idle fields, he plants magic mushrooms.
The waters of Mirror Lake hold deep mystery,
The immortal caves of Kuaiji abound with spirits.
He must ride a red carp to roam the azure sea,
And should use a flock of geese to transcribe the Daoist scriptures.
Imperial grace bestowed a poem of forty characters,
The enlightened ruler granted thirty yi of gold.
A farewell feast filled the court as he was sent off,
Two pages and a four-horse carriage set out from here.
Looking back, the purple绶 seems like light dust,
Bidding distant farewell to Green Gate, sighing for old friends.
Ducks and herons, uneven, cling to feathered canopies,
Rainbows, sinuous and soaring, escort the carriage wheels.
Rows upon rows attend him, like Fuqiu Bo,
Zengzi's glory surpassed that of Zhu Maichen.
If I, Yu Gao, have any foreknowledge,
I would vanish my traces, return to the root, follow the Great Simplicity.
A thousand years, distant and long, I'd wait like Lingwei,
The Ten Continents, vast and endless, I'd think of Fangshuo.
Go back, go back!
The green ox stamps its hoof, pausing briefly.
Suddenly, clouds and mist obscure him from sight,
Only a drifting, fragrant aroma remains.