The willow silk is long, the spring rain is thin, and the sound of leaking outside the flowers is delivered far away. The geese are frightened, the crows are rising in the city, and the golden partridges are painted on the screen.
The fragrant mist is thin and penetrates the heavy curtain, melancholy Xiejiachi Pavilion. The red candle is on the back, the embroidered drapery is hanging down, Meng Changjun doesn't know.