1: The chrysanthemums condense with the morning dew, and the dew drops in the autumn bay. Immortals make wine when they are ripe, and when they are drunk, they fly into the sky. ——Gu Kuang's "Huangju Bay"
2: The yellow flower has passed. Moon wine has never been taken away. Han Die is passionate and unrestrained. Both flew down on a sunny day. Silently leaning against the red railing alone. The fragrant flowers are picked to the edge. The pillow is filled with golden dimples. Who can give pity to the delicate fragrance? ——Chao Buzhi's "Qing Ping Le·Composition on Late Chrysanthemums"
3: When the boy was drinking, he saw chrysanthemums enthusiastically. I won’t drink anymore now, and I will sigh every time I see him. Standing there with hands full of picking, I walked back home. There is nothing to say at this time, how sad is it to abandon it.
——Han Yu's "Late Chrysanthemum"