Drawn up on shore, our boats await the day.Under a dying moon the rapids gleam.The wind picks up, the lanterns toss and sway,And rain creeps gently down the moaning stream.Still falls the rain when morning gongs resound.The cliffs are green walls mounting to the dawn.Our boats push forth, the gray gulls wheel around-- And I am desolate, for you are gone.
-Tu Fu
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