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Wen Tingjun

Travelling Early to Shangshan

In the morning, he starts to move at the journey bell,
He travels, thinking sorrowfully of his home.
A cock crows; a thatched cottage; the moon;
On the planks of the bridge, his footsteps mark the frost.
Mongolian oak leaves fall on the mountain road,
Citron blossom's bright by the post house wall.
Still his thoughts are of his dream of Duling,
The pond full of geese and wild ducks.

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