In the old days, the moonlight shone on me several times. To arouse beautiful women, no matter the cold or climbing. He Xun is getting older now and has forgotten the spring breeze of poetry. But it's strange that there are few flowers outside the bamboo, and the fragrance is cold when entering the Yao mat. The country of the river is quiet and silent, sighing and trusting the road far away, the snow is beginning to accumulate at night. Cui Zun is easy to cry, but the red calyx is speechless and remembers each other. I remember once hand in hand, thousands of trees overwhelmed the cold green of the West Lake. The pieces are blown away again, when will we see them again?