If you don’t return, you will get it. Who can compete with the misty scenery of the five lakes?
I wear spring clothes every day when I return to the dynasty, and I return drunk from the river head every day.
The butterfly dreams of a home thousands of miles away, and the cuckoo branches watch the third night of the moon.
There are fifty strings of brocade strings for no reason, each string and one column is reminiscent of the past.
The poplars are fluttering against the tents, the spring clouds are hot, and the tortoise-shell screen is full of drunken eyes.
Don’t be surprised that Han Ping is just a butterfly, flying on other flowers.
Drinking debts are commonplace, but rare in the past seventy years.
The dust lingers on the wanderer's face, and the butterfly touches the beauty's hairpin.
The autumn wind is sad and sad, and the travelers have not returned. The grass outside the Great Wall fades first, and the geese south of the Yangtze River arrive late. The hibiscus has withered on the face, and the willow has lost its new eyebrows. Falling down makes people sad, but who knows if one's heart is broken.
God will pay for this, and I will go to Canglang in June.
The books in the hometown have been extinct for many years, but the spring flowers are only full of mirrors.
The water flows and the flowers wither away without mercy, sending the east wind across Chucheng.
The willows on the bank have long leaves, and the window peach trees have thin tarsus.
Zhuang Sheng was fascinated by butterflies in his dream, and looked forward to the emperor's spring heart with cuckoos.