The Xiang curtain is half rolled up and the door is half closed, and the ice is crushed into earth and jade for the basin.
The pistils of a stolen pear are three cents white, and the soul of a beautiful flower is borrowed.
The immortals in the Moon Cave meet in silk robes, and the resentful women in autumn wipe away the traces of their cries.
Shy and silent, I complain to someone. I feel tired and faint in the west wind.