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clouds have gathered, and gathered, and the rain falls and falls, The eight ply of the heavens are all folded into one darkness, And the wide, flat road stretches out. I stop in my room toward the East, quiet, quiet, I pat my new cask of wine. My friends are estranged, or far distant, I bow my head and stand still.

Rain, rain, and the clouds have gathered, The eight ply of the heavens are darkness, The flat land is turned into river. "Wine, wine, here is wine!" I drink by my eastern window. I think of talking and man, And no boat, no carriage, approaches.