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quán
jiāo
shān
zhōng
dào
shì


A poem to a taoist hermit Chuanjiao mountain
jīn
cháo
jùn
zhāi
lěng

hū
niàn
shān
zhōng
kè


jiàn

shù
jīng
xīn

guī
lái
zhǔ
bái
shí


yù
chí

piáo
jǐu

yuǎn
wèi
fēng
yǔ



luò
yè
mǎn
kōng
shān

hé
chǔ
xún
xíng




Palace has grown cold today;

And I suddenly think of my mountain friend

Gathering firewood down in the valley

Or boiling white stones for potatoes in his hut....

I wish I might take him a cup of wine

To cheer him through the evening storm;

But in fallen leaves that have heaped the bare slopes,

How should I ever find his footprints!
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