The ancient poems about cooking tea around the stove are as follows:
On a cold night, guests come to tea as wine, and the bamboo stove soup turns red at the beginning. As usual, it is different to have plum blossoms before the window and the moon.
on a cold winter night, a cup of hot tea is enough to replace wine when guests come to visit. Sitting around the stove with friends, the bamboo sticks are covered with the stove, the charcoal fire in the stove is just red, and the hot water in the pot is boiling. As usual, the cold moonlight shines in front of the window, as if with a slight chill, while the two people in the room who replace the wine with tea look at the plum blossoms blooming by the window, and their hearts are warm as spring.
The snow is clear and sweet, and it will rise in Jing Quan. Bring your own tea stove and cook it. A hundred years' living on earth will not be wasted if you don't care about anything.
After the heavy snow, the cool and sweet snow water rose in Jing Quan. With brew tea's small stove, we started to make tea and brew tea on the spot. With a cup of tea in my throat, there is nothing in the world that I can care about. Listening to the boiling water, enjoying the fragrance of tea, and enjoying the leisure time, this minute and this second are not in vain.
brew tea cooks snow and ice every night, and it's very clear today. The mountain window is located in the middle of the night, and the furnace flame is still steaming.
It snows constantly every night. Take clear white snow and iced water to boil tea every night. The snow finally stopped tonight, and it was clear between heaven and earth, between moonlight and snow color. Living in seclusion in the mountains, the moon outside the window is clear at midnight, as if it were beyond the world. The flame in the stove rises and the hot air diffuses, and the whole room is warm.
When I dream back to the cold moon and spit on the cliff, the soup rings and the wind relaxes to listen to the tea. Leaning against a tree is afraid of falling snow, and I dare not smell plum blossoms when I get up.
when I woke up from my dream, the cold moonlight spewed out from the cliffs. The kettle and tea soup on the stove are boiling, and the noise is like the wind in the pine forest. Leaning against the tree, sitting quietly, this silent night, I am afraid that the residual snow on the branches will be shocked, and I am afraid that the sleeping plum blossoms will be awakened.
Sweeping snow shakes Tingmei, and brew tea folds bamboo. The wind at the bottom of the armpit is clear, and the house in the forest is fragrant.
Shake the plum trees in the courtyard, sweep off the snow among the flowers, put them in the urn, break the dead bamboo outside the door, burn the bamboo branches and make a pot of green tea. A cup of tea warms the throat, just like a refreshing breath, as if the wind is blowing under the armpit, and the fragrance of tea is curled up and refreshing, filling the cabin in the forest and forgetting the troubles in the world.
the stove simmers the snow and decocts the tea, and the pine and bamboo are surrounded by flowers. Out of the window, Yumei makes a shadow, helping others to make two or three flowers.
A snowy day, a steaming stove, a light fragrant tea, a luxury of forgetting the world. The stove is burning with burning-resistant root bumps, and cooking snow and frying tea has its own elegance. Outside the house, pine and bamboo are planted, plum branches and leaves are sparse, and several plum blossoms are blooming, which arouses poetry.