| My hut is at the foot |
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| Through autumn fields of bush clover |
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| Now summer's come |
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| We part / I go beyond the |
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| Who Says a Painting Must Look Like Life? |
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| What is constant |
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| Song of the Lute |
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| After the Last Light of the Setting Sun Had Vanished, the Moon Shone in My Window |
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| Yüan Wei-chih and I Are Both Old and Heirless, a Fact We've Lamented in Words and Touched on in Our Poetry |
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| Mount Yoshino / looking at pines awhile |
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