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— Wang Bo Soughing, the cool breeze blows; My wooded dell clean grows. It drives smoke off the rill, Rolls up mist over the hill, Leaves no trace when we part, And moves as if moved at heart. When sunset calms the scene, Hear the song of pines green.
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— Chen Zi’ang In late spring grows the orchid good, How luxuriant are its leaves green! Alone it adorns empty wood With red blooms and violet stems lean. Slowly, slowly shortens the day; Rippling, rippling blows autumn breeze. By the year’s end it fades away. What has become of it fragrance, please?