September
If you don’t climb a thousand crags,
How can you learn
All things are empty?
The mountain’s head is white and mine is too.
December dies, the year
Runs out its string as all things do.
At the summit: one rude hut, the snow,
This lonely body, and the wind.
I lean on the rail, heart sudden struck:
The moon rises from the Great River: there.
– Yuan Me (1716-1798)
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