Why is there so much sound in the wind, and so many mournful flows in the mist? Flicking clothes and sleeves, looking for sounds in the rain but nothing, sweeping leaves
I sigh with sadness every autumn. The hand rises, the cup falls, and three thousand flowers fall in the dream; the weather is cold, the weather is cold, and the encounter is peaceful.
The night is dark with stars and sparkling rain. Under the lotus, a man in green clothes holds a green flute in his hand; above the osmanthus, a flower lady holds a jade flute in her hand; outside the pavilion, she holds a pair of dewdrops and pearls; ten miles away, she can still smell the fragrance of flowers.
Someone's dress
If I could start my life over again, I would still choose the same path as this life.
I hope someone can accompany me to sit and watch the dawn wind and the waning moon.
Yu Linling
The cicadas are chilling, it's late in the pavilion, and the showers are beginning to stop. There is no trace of drinking in the capital tent, and the orchid boat urges you to leave in the place of nostalgia. Holding hands and looking into tearful eyes, they were speechless and choked. Thoughts go by, thousands of miles of mist, the dusk is heavy and the sky is vast. Since ancient times, passion has hurt parting, and it is even more embarrassing and neglected in the Qingqiu Festival. Where can I wake up from my drunkenness tonight? On the bank of willows and the waning moon in the morning breeze. After so many years, it should be a good time and good scenery. Even if there are thousands of customs, who can tell them?