He is going to the T’ung T’ing lake, My friend whom I have loved so many years. The spring wind startles the willows And they break into pale leaf. I go with my friend As far as the river-bank. He is gone— And my mind is filled and overflowing With the things I did not say. Again the white water-flower Is ripe for plucking. The green pointed swords of the iris Splinter the brown earth. To the south of the river Are many cinnamon trees. I gather branches of them to give to my friend At his return.
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