Stepping down from the swing,Languidly she smooths her soft slender hands,Her flimsy dress wet with light perspirationA slim flower trembling with heavy dew.Spying a stranger, she walks hastily away in shyness:Her feet in bare socks,Her gold hairpin fallen.Then she stops to lean against a gate,And looking back,Makes as if sniffing a green plum
-Li Qing Zhao
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