The poem describing drinking tea is as follows:
1. One bowl moistens the throat with kisses, two bowls break the loneliness, and three bowls search the dry intestines, but there are only five thousand volumes of text. Four bowls of sweating, all the uneven things in life are dispersed into the pores. Five bowls clear the muscles and bones, and six bowls clear the spirits. I couldn't eat seven bowls, but I could feel the cool breeze blowing in my armpits. ——Lu Tong, Tang Dynasty, excerpt, "A Letter of Thanks to Meng for his Admonition and Sending New Tea (Seven Bowls of Tea Song)"
2. Tea. Fragrant leaves, buds. I admire poets and love the monk's family. Carved white jade, woven red yarn. The yellow pistils are fried in a saucepan, and the koji flowers are turned into the bowl. After the night, I invite you to accompany the bright moon, and before the morning, you are ordered to face the morning glow. I have washed away all the people of the past and present without getting tired, and I will know that I am not worthy of praise after being drunk. ——Yuan Zhen, "Poem of One to Seven Characters·Tea"
3. Guests come to drink tea on a cold night, and the bamboo stove soup is boiling and the fire is just beginning to turn red. The moon in front of the window is the same, but it is different that there are plum blossoms. ——"Cold Night" by Du Lei, a poet of the Song Dynasty
4. Forgetting words under the bamboo, purple tea is better than Yu Ke's drunken clouds. The heart of dust is washed away, and the joy is hard to be exhausted. The sound of cicadas in a tree is slanted. ——"Tea Banquet with Zhao Ju" by Qian Qi of the Tang Dynasty
5. Don't be frightened by the wine and fall asleep heavily in spring. Gambling on books will make the fragrance of tea splash away. At that time, it was just ordinary. ——"Huanxi Sand" by Nalan Xingde, a poet of the Qing Dynasty
6. Su Shi of the Song Dynasty made Jijiang Fried Tea. Living water must be boiled with living fire, and you can get deep and clear water from fishing stones. The big ladle stores the moon and returns to the spring urn, and the small ladle is divided into the river and into the night vase. The snow milk has been fried for the feet, and the pine wind suddenly makes the sound of diarrhea. The withered intestines are not easy to ban three bowls, sit and listen to the length of the deserted city.