Dongpo's writings crown the world, / Their light vies with the sun and moon, outshining the refined.
Who, splitting into factions, slanders him thus? / Like ants shaking a tree, they overrate their might.
Grand as heaven and man, Master Ouyang, / Yields and steps aside, a disciple at his gate.
Heaven prospered this culture, a great talent emerged; / Both master and disciple stand as the foremost.
His poetry rivals Li, the Banished Immortal; / This judgment, most fair, who would dare deny?
Words not abstruse nor shallowly plain, / When stanzas form and rhymes end, meaning lingers on.
The lasting flavor startles more than flying birds; / Random conjectures abound, like those of Yuan Zhen.
Perfect as nature itself, no trace of axe or chisel; / For two hundred years, no work like this has appeared.
Who can contend for the lead but the great Su? / Calling him "Banished Immortal" or "Retired Master" is no overpraise.
His mind holds ten thousand volumes, past and present; / Under his brush, not a speck of dust remains.
His armory is rich and dense with arrayed might, / Sharp or blunt, all await the reader's scrutiny.
In later years, his seaside poems reached greater heights; / His verses matching Tao's even surpassed Tao.
As if earth split and heaven opened, embracing all things, / Even Du Fu, should they meet, ought to yield the way.
South of the Dipper, how many such men exist? / West of the Great River, dissent still finds its voice.
Pure as sunlight and jade, a "Retired Master" too, / Admitted he could write prose, but not poetry.
Stele for the Huai, hymns to sages, ten "Qin Melodies", / "The People's Birth", "Pure Temple", verses of "Li Sao".
Spacious major pieces gallop with bold wonder, / When rhymes grow tight, their splendor grows more rare.
For Han Yu, poetry was but a sideline task; / When poetry reached Han Yu, what more to criticize?
The worth of writing is fixed like gold and jade; / Mouths, biased by their schools, make light or heavy claims.
Scholars of late have revered the "Western Kun" style; / In poetry, no Du Fu; in prose, no Han Yu.
Sweeping clean the study, dusting off the desk, / I light a stick of incense, revering three great masters.