| Light goes the butterfly, what time |
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| Methinks my tenderness the grass must be |
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| In autumn a cicada dead |
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| The Heartless Government Office,—ay! and the cuckoo |
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| Yes, I am old; but yet with doleful stour |
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| What though the waters of that antique rill |
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| The Seventh Night of the Seventh Moon |
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| 'Tis evening, and in serried file |
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| The Grave of the Maiden of Unai |
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| The Pearls |
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