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The crane cries in the ninth pool of the marsh, |
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And her voice is heard in the [distant] wilds. |
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The fish lies in the deep, |
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And now is by the islet. |
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Pleasant is that garden, |
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In which are the sandal trees; |
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But beneath them are only withered leaves. |
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The stones of those hills, |
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May be made into grind-stones. |
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The crane cries in the ninth pool of the marsh, |
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And her voice is heard in the sky. |
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The fish is by the islet, |
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And now it lies hid in the deep. |
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Pleasant is that garden, |
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In which are the sandal trees; |
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But beneath them is the paper-mulberry tree, |
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The stones of those hills, |
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May be used to polish gems. |