Going up the Hill
by Du Mu
A slanting stony path leads far to the cold hill;
Where fleecy clouds are born, there appear cots and bowers.
I stop my cab at maple woods to gaze my fill;
Frost-bitten leaves look redder than early spring flowers.
Going up the Hill
by Du Mu
A slanting stony path leads far to the cold hill;
Where fleecy clouds are born, there appear cots and bowers.
I stop my cab at maple woods to gaze my fill;
Frost-bitten leaves look redder than early spring flowers.
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