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The fields are chill, the sparse1 rain has stopped; The colours of Spring teem2 on every side. With leaping fish the blue pond is full; With singing thrushes the green boughs3 droop4. The flowers of the field have dabbled5 their powdered cheeks; The mountain grasses are bent6 level at the waist. By the bamboo stream the last fragment of cloud Blown by the wind slowly scatters7 away.
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