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Tai Shu-lun
Chancing on Old Friends in a Village Inn
While the autumn moon is pouring full
On
a thousand night-levels among towns and villages,
There meet by chance, south of the river,
Dreaming doubters of a dream . . .
In the
trees a wind has startled the birds,
And insects
cower from cold in the grass;
But wayfarers at
least have wine
And nothing to fear - till the morning
bell.
