"Will you love me in December as you do in May, Will you love me in the good old fashioned way? When my hair has all turned gray, Will you kiss me then and say, That you love me in December as you do in May?"

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Deep at the bottom of the well no warmth has yet returned, The rain which sighs and feels so cold has dampened withered roots. What sort of man at such a time would come to visit the teacher? As this is not a time for flowers, I find I've come alone.

— Su Shi