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Pan Chin Yu - 18 B.C.


OF fresh, new silk, all snowy white,
And round as harvest moon,
A pledge of purity and love,
A small but welcome boon.

While summer lasts, borne in the hand,
Or folded on the breast,
Twill genntly soothe thy burning brow,
And charm thee to thy rest.

But, ah! When autumn frosts descend
And winter's winds blow cold,
No longer sought, no longer loved,
'Twill lie in dust and mold.

This silken fan, then, deign accept,
Sad emblem of my lot,
Caressed and fondled for an hour,
Then speedily forgot.

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