On a road outreaching the white clouds, 
By a spring outrunning the bluest river, 
Petals come drifting on the wind 
And the brook is sweet with them all the way. 
My quiet gate is a mountain-trail, 
And the willow-trees about my cottage 
Sift on my sleeve, through the shadowy noon, 
Distillations of the sun.

Liu Jixu

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