Tang Li Bai's Bodhisattva Man: The flat forest is boundless, the haze is boundless, and the cold mountain area is compassionate. When the color enters a tall building, someone upstairs is sad. Wang Jie is empty, and birds are eager to fly. Where to return, the pavilion is shorter Song Liu Yong's Yulin Order: Cold cicadas wail, pavilions are late, and showers begin to rest. Farewell outside Kyoto, but not in the mood to drink, reluctant to leave, the people on board have been urging to start. Holding hands and looking at each other, tears swirled in my eyes until there were no words at last, and a thousand words stuck in my throat and I couldn't say it. Missing thousands of miles of smoke and waves, the evening is heavy. Since ancient times, the most sad thing for sentimental people is to leave, not to mention the bleak autumn, how can they stand the sadness. Who knows where I am when I am awake tonight? There is a breeze and a waning moon on the bank of Yangliu. This is a long time, people who love each other are not together, and I even expect to be satisfied with the good weather and scenery in name only. There are many kinds of customs, who are you talking to?
In the early Tang Dynasty, Wang Xiucai was sent to Chizhou to pay homage to Wu DuDu: Chiyang was saddled and Shili Pavilion was full of grass. The clothes cover the obstacles and the wind is fine, and the sword is light and snowy. In the sunny suburbs, the soul of my hometown is broken, and the trees are crying and dreaming. Xinglang, the host of the South Pavilion, waved his whip and asked for directions.
Li Shutong (Master Hongyi) saw off: The grass was blue by the ancient road outside the pavilion. The evening breeze blows the flute, and the sunset is beyond the mountain. The horizon, the horizon, intimate friends are half scattered. Life is once in a blue moon, only parting. Outside the pavilion, beside the ancient road, the grass is blue. When will you return this? Don't hesitate to come. The end of the world is short, the end of the world is a corner, the bosom friend is half scattered, and a pot of turbid water is spilled. Say goodbye to Meng Han tonight.
(ancient China) a roadside pavilion for travelers to rest or shelter.