Lin Daiyu's poem "Burying Flowers": Flowers are flying all over the sky, and the fragrance disappears. Who has pity? The hair is soft and floating in the spring pavilion, and the falling wool touches the embroidered curtain. In the curtains, my daughter treasures the spring dusk, full of sadness and nowhere to tell. She hoed the flowers out of the embroidered curtain by hand and endured the falling flowers. Willow pods come from wheat straw, whether the peach floats or the willow flies. Peaches and plums can be sent again next year. Who will come to the boudoir next year? The fragrant nest has been built in March, and Liang Zhongyan is too heartless. Although you can peck flowers and hairs next year, it is not easy for people to go to the empty nest. 360 days a year, the wind and sword are pressing each other. How long will it take to be bright? Once adrift, it's hard to find. Flowers bloom easily, but they fall hard to find. The person who buried the flowers was bored in front of the steps, tears were secretly sprinkled on the flowers, and blood was seen on the branches. The cuckoo was silent at dusk, and the lotus hoe returned to cover the heavy door. When the blue light shone on the wall, people began to sleep, but the window was not warm. Blaming slaves is double depression, half pity and half trouble. Flow spring suddenly to bother, and to silence. Last night, I sent a sad song outside the court, knowing that it was the soul of flowers and birds. The soul of a flower and a bird is always hard to stay, and the bird is ashamed of itself without words. May slaves grow wings and fly to the end of the sky with flowers. After all, there is no fragrant hill. Hide the wind without a trick. It's better to be clean than trapped in a ditch. I will be buried as a dead slave today, and I don't know when I will die. Today, the slave who buried the flowers smiled, and he didn't know who it was until he buried the slave. Let's see the residual flowers of spring gradually falling, which is the time when beauty dies of old age. There is no sad song for me, I don't know what happened. A Dream of Red Mansions by Cao Xueqin in Qing Dynasty.
Cao Xueqin (about1765438+May 28th, 2005-about1February 763 12), whose real name is Zhan, real name, real name and Qin Pu, is the author of China's classic Dream of Red Mansions, and his ancestral home is disputed.