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��82. TO LUH, THE REGISTRAR
It is autumn near and far. Outside the gate all the hills are barren. A white cloud, my old friend, Beckons me from far empyreal space. Pray, when will Luh Chen-ho come back- He who has flown west like a crane?
��A native commentator remarks: "This poem would be better if the last two lines and the title were left out."
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