The moonlight in front of the bed, the snow outside the window, the high-flying egrets, and the floating geese. There are paintings in Tang poetry, and there are songs in Tang poetry. Tang poetry is like a clear spring, flowing into my heart. The lovesick red beans, the snow in Wushan Mountain, the soldiers at the frontier, and the guests returning home. There is joy in Tang poetry, and there is suffering in Tang poetry. Tang poetry is the ancestors speaking to me.