The mountain-light suddenly fails in the west, in the east from the lake the slow moon rises. Distributed by Xi Liang, Kaixuan lying idle open. The wind brings me odours of lotuses, and bamboo-leaves drip with a music of dew. I would take up my lute and I would play, but, alas, who here would understand. And so I think of you, old friend, O troubler of my midnight dreams!
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