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Gently I stir a white feather fan, With open shirt sitting in a green wood. I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone A wind from the pine-tree trickles on my bare head.
Li Bai
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Li Bai
Calligrapher
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Suiye
Li Shier
Li Po
Li Taibai
Taibai
Li Bo
Li Bei
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The living is a passing traveler The dead, a man come home.
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The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden They hurt me. I grow older.
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The world is like a great empty dream. Why should one toil away one's life?
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All the birds have flown up and gone A lonely cloud floats leisurely by. We never tire of looking at each other - Only the mountain and I.
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Since Life is but a Dream, Why toil to no avail?
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To wash and rinse our souls of their age-old sorrows,We drained a hundred jugs of wine.A splendid night it was . . . .In the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,But at last drunkenness overtook usAnd we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,The earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet
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In the battlefield men grapple each other and die The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven, While ravens and kites peck at human entrails, Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees.
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I bow in reverence to the white cloud.
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I am asked why I live in the green mountains I smile but reply not, for my heart is at rest. The flowing waters carry the image of the peach blossoms far, far away there is an earth, there is a heaven, unknown to men.
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Forever and forever and forever
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You ask why I make my home n the mountain forest, and I smile, and am silent, and even my soul remains quiet: it lives in the other world which no one owns. The peach trees blossom, The water flows.
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Growing older, I love only quietness: who need be concerned with the things of this world? Looking back, what better plan than this: returning to the grove.
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