Dead Hua Lian by Yan Shu, a poet in the Northern Song Dynasty.
The threshold chrysanthemum worries about smoke and tears, the curtain is light and cold, and the swallows fly away. The bright moon doesn't know how to leave sorrow and hate bitterness, and shines obliquely through Zhuhu Lake.
Last night, the west wind withered the trees, and I went up to the tall building alone and looked at the horizon. Want to send colorful stationery and rulers, where do you know?
From the Song Dynasty poet Liu Yong's Liang Zhu Liu Yong.
Leaning against the dangerous building, the wind is fine, looking forward to spring sorrow, and the sky is dark. In the afterglow of the grass, no one will lean on the fence and be silent.
I plan to get drunk on the map of madness and sing songs for wine, which is strong and tasteless. I don't regret that my belt is getting wider and wider, which makes people haggard for Iraq.
On Song and Yuan Xi from Xin Qiji's Jade Case
Thousands of trees bloom at night in the East. It blows down and the stars are like rain. BMW carved cars are full of incense. Phoenix flute moves, jade pot turns, fish dragon dances all night.
Moth, snow, willow, golden thread. The laughter faded away. Look for him in the crowd. Suddenly back to ... show all.