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poet

Li Po

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poem
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-trees trickles on my bare head.
poem
Speak of the Blessed Islands men from the Ocean’s brim.
Truth is hid in their endless billows and mist-wreaths dim.
Tell of the T’ien-mu Mountain men in the land of Yore,
Seen there, when rainbows scatter, and clouds conceal no more!