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On Hearing a Monk from Shu Playing His Lute

A monk from Shu his green lute brings,
Coming down the west peak of Mount Brow.
He sweeps his fingers o’er its strings,
I hear the wind through pine-trees sough.
A running stream washes my heart,
With evening bells its echo’s loud,
I do not feel the sun depart
From mountains green and autumn cloud.

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