The Rain and the Bell Are Slow

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 Dumen tent, and the place of nostalgia is the orchid boat. Looking at each other with tears in their hands, they were speechless and choked. Thousands of miles away, mist spreads across the sky. Sentiment has been hurt by separation since ancient times, and it is even more embarrassing to be left out of the Qingqiu Festival! Where will you wake up tonight? On the bank of willows, the dawn wind and the waning moon appear. After so many years, it should be a time of good times and good times. Even if there are thousands of styles, who should I tell them about?