Again Dividing the Rhymes I Drew the Word Dong (動), Gave It to Master Gak, and Sent It to Master Hyeon as Well又分韻得動字。贈覺公。兼簡玄公。

The old elder of the Southern School is a phoenix among monks, and once he entered the gold-and-blue valley of Hangye. Dipping spring water to drink, lying on the rocks, he keeps company with apes and birds, and on the empty crag only the moon greets him and sends him off. He must be playing again with the hollowed wine-jar of Langweng (浪翁), stroking the blue moss and peering into the split seams. The hills grind and the waters strike and wash the clutter away, and so the tone of his Way grows the clearer and the loftier. Master Hyeon, in his loneliness, carries on Folong (佛隴), and at Wolseong has woven three or four thatched huts. Bubyeongnu is high enough to catch and ride a crane, and his soaring thought passes the sunset haze and suddenly flies and stirs. On the racing waves the spring wind sounds an iron jar, and the cold current pours out the moon and shakes silver quicksilver. Come back, he makes poems as a spring wells up, and his turn of line is clear and new, startling the many at once. The three masters are to me as brothers; meeting and laughing once together, it is dim as a dream. The feeling of old friends is deep and it is hard to be brave at parting; held back, we drink hard — why should I decline to drink deep?