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“. . . Like ashes of gold in a cinnamon-flame, My youthful desires have been burnt with the years– And tonight in the chilling sunset-wind A cicada, singing, weighs on my heart.” — Haoran Meng
. . . Like ashes of gold in a cinnamon-flame,
My youthful desires have been burnt with the years–
And tonight in the chilling sunset-wind
A cicada, singing, weighs on my heart.