There are bamboo springs in the small courtyard, and there is no running water in the quiet mountains.
After the rain, the flowers in the forest are still there, and the grass makes people relaxed.
There are bamboo springs in the court, the sky is cloudless and the moon is full.
The window bamboo shadow shakes the book case, and the mountain spring sounds into the inkstone pool.
Write poetry in your dreams, and write with a pen when you are drunk.
The breeze and bright moon are priceless, and there is love near water and distant mountains.
The spring breeze hall is the first swallow, and the rain is the first flower planting.
Spring water loves me selflessly and elegantly, and bamboo ploughing calls for a long time.
Smoke clouds enter new poetry volumes, and mountains and rivers open ancient paintings.
I don't know the prosperity of the world with the door closed, but it's just right for the lakes and mountains with the door open.
Clouds and fragrance are the world of poetry, and water and flowers are its roots.
The old tree has flowers and aspirations, and the spring leaves are reversed.
Bow their heads and cherish their daughter's bones, but Fu Jian still has Wan Li's heart
But seeing the sun, though it is brilliant, why is it melancholy at dusk?
The native land is as leisurely as a vine, and the happiness on earth is heavy and the sun is shining.
Hui Feng, Chang Zhaochun, Old Scenery, Zhuang Evening Painting
Don't worry about dusk when you are far away, but you will see the river at the end of the year.
It's easy to get old when it rains and sunny, and it's resistant to freezing and evergreen.