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Solitary stands the russet pear tree, |
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With its fruit so bright. |
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The king's business must not be slackly performed, |
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And the days are prolonged with us one after another. |
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The sun and moon are in the tenth month. |
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My woman's heart is wounded; |
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My soldier might have leisure [to return]! |
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Solitary stands the russet pear tree, |
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With its leaves so luxuriant. |
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The king's business must not be slackly performed, |
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And my heart is wounded and sad. |
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The plants and trees are luxuriant, |
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But my heart is sad. |
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O that my soldier might return! |
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I ascended that hill in the north, |
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To gather the medlars. |
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The king's business must not be slackly performed, |
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And our parents are made sorrowful. |
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His chariot of sandal wood must be damaged; |
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His four horses must be worn out; |
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My soldier cannot be far off. |
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They have not packed up, they do not come; |
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My sorrowing heart is greatly distressed. |
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The time is past, and he is not here, |
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To the multiplication of my sorrows. |
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Both by the tortoise shell and the reeds have I divined, |
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And they unite in saying he is near. |
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My soldier is at hand! |