Early cicada Tang Bai Juyi-On the seventh day of June, cicadas sang on the river. In the deep leaves of heather, there are two or three sounds at dusk.
Pipa goes hand in hand with Tang Bai Juyi-the big strings hum like rain, and the small strings whisper like a secret. Humming, whispering-and then mixing together, like pouring large and small pearls into a plate of jade. Between Guan Ying's words, the bottom of the flower is slippery, so you can't swallow the spring scenery and flow under the ice. The ice spring is cold and astringent, and the strings condense, and the condensation will never stop. The depth of sadness and the hiding of sadness are more told in silence than in voice. A silver vase suddenly burst, pouring out a stream of water, jumping out of the conflict and blow between armored horses and weapons. Before she put down the pick, her stroke was over, and all four strings made a sound, just like tearing silk.
The rooster crows at dawn, Tang-at dawn, the rooster crows in the forest and falls into the frog palace with a sound. Two calls to break the pillow dream, three pedestrians smoke sea red.
Chicken Tang Cui Dao Rong-windy and rainy night in the mountains, I want to crow before dawn.
Give Tang Geng a cold snap-who did it? It rang long ago and repeatedly covered the steps.
Playing the flute, Du Fu in the Tang Dynasty —— Playing the flute in autumn is clear, and the wind and the moon are clear. Who can skillfully make heartbroken sounds?
Li Bai, the Tang Dynasty flute in Los Angeles on a spring night-his flute flies in the dark, and the spring breeze fills Los Angeles.
Smell the flute sound of the Tang Dynasty, Rong Yu-I miss it in the dead of night, and the flute sound is even sadder.