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A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916], at

p. 53


I climb the mountain of Tsyu-i. I look down on
      clear rivers.
Coldly the Syan speeds along, cold as it widens
      to meet the sea.
Clouds break into autumn tints, the skies are
      flaked with golden foam.
I am now in the foreign regions of Tsin and U;
      and countless are the miles of the trackless
      way, brushed by the wings of birds alone,
      lying between me and my native land.
Now with its half-disk leaning upon some island
      sets the evening sun.
The lake is beginning to glow. There soars the
      moon from the rim of the far-off sea.
And all my thoughts are plunged into the hardy
      loveliness of autumntide.
Northward I wander in dream to Yan, southward
      I search for Yuye…
The lotus is falling, falling. The river is jewelled
      with autumn hues.
Long, long the wind blows…Long, long the
      night wears!
Fain would I grasp the incredible…
Oh! to fly away seaward and dream for a little
      by its shores!…
To take from an island in blue ocean the six

p. 54

Alas, there is no such length of line.
My hand caresses the surging wind; I am deeper
      drowned in sorrow.
I will away! away! Too strong is the life of
      men for me.
There in the magical land of P‘eng-lai I will
      gather the grass of immortality.

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