In this spring, at the foot of the mountain, only crows are sad, and the curtains hang long, covering the lonely Hua Gong.
Clouds filled the air, the red pane looked dim, the step stones were broken, and the money-shaped purple moss was skewed.
At that time, there was still wine in the jade bowl, and the silver lamp was bright, and it was adjacent to the outside.
When King Shu left, there was a bud on the edge of spring.
"Qin to lyrics? Luo Chao Cao Fei Li Bai
In March, when the wheat is green, the pheasant flies into the sky, carrying two female pheasants.
Why the splendid clothes are out of water, and the calf herder is sad about the salary.
Spring is peaceful, the sun is warm, pecking at spring is full of courage, and the neck is broken.
The pheasant class played the urgent orchestral strings and poured wine into the jade bowl.
A withered young man is a withered young man. I am still living alone at the age of seventy.
The endless hatred of playing the strings returns to the yellow mud in printing.
Li Bai's Flying to the Phoenix
In March, when the wheat is green, the pheasant flies into the sky, carrying two female pheasants.
Where are the embroidered wings of brocade? Cattle herders feel sorry for their wages.
Spring is blooming and the weather is getting warmer.
Pecking the fountain is full of courage, and the neck is broken when competing for the male.
The pheasant class played an urgent orchestra and fell in love with the beautiful wine bowl.
A withered young man is a withered young man. I am still living alone at the age of seventy.
The endless hatred of playing the strings returns to the yellow mud in printing.
Li Bai, a travel bank
Lanling wine tulips, jade bowls filled with amber light.
But I got the host drunk and didn't know where it was.
Huang Furan, Send Hung-chien to qixia temple to Pick Tea.
Picking tea is not picking grain, but staying away from the cliff.
The leaves are warm in the spring breeze, and the baskets are oblique in the daytime.
I used to know Shansi Road, but I stayed at home.
Excuse me, Wang Suncao, when will this bowl of flowers open?
"Jiyuan Cold Food" Meng Jiao
The wind blows in the nest, and there are no children and no old women.
The willow bow and reed arrow are invisible, and the high red and far green work cover each other.
Girls and boys are short, and I heard that they cherish the Spring Festival Gala.
The runaway bees hide butterflies and trample on the ground, but throw away a porcelain bowl.
A hundred times a day in spring, you have no feet to walk to the court.
Hungry children need horses to sweep flowers and feed them, and drink three or two glasses of water at night.
I remember that we were both over the blackberry moss well, but there was no news when the pulley rope broke.
Alcoholics rely on spring to make their hair green, and illness hides autumn white.
Chang' an fell into the sky, and the south wind led to the front of the three temples.
Poor spring objects also admire me, but I sing Wei Shui.
Take my hand home from the flowers, and Songyang will leave me with a rosy glow.
Pity lingers in thousands of feet, and the pillars are full of doubts.
Bees mainly grind their teeth and bite the flowers in the village.
Your urn should be full today, and the five-color winter cage is awesome.