Bai Juyi
Yuanhe was in Mao, in the spring and February of six years.
The moon is dark and cold, and it is cloudy and snowy at night.
Even after the night, I didn't rest.
As big as goose feathers and as dense as jade flakes.
Cold sells spring, gas turns to wind.
There is no grass in the forest, and Qujiang water is reunited.
Red dried apricot flowers die, green frozen poplar branches break.
Your pity is physical injury, not the pity of years.
God sometimes commands that the four orders are equal.
If the cold is abnormal, everything will die.
I think the sage means something, and Lu has his own theory.
I still remember that water doesn't turn into ice, or books don't kill frost.
The general will teach politics and religion and guard against evil.
How is the snow today? Now is not the season to believe in beauty.
Celebrate the harvest year, celebrate on the ninth.
Shi Li
Cool, cool, seasonal, early clothes smell like Hong Shuo.
There is a festival in Chongyang, full of things and happiness.
The sunset pool is bright, and the powder is new.
Fang Zun filled the room, blowing condensed smoke.
Huihe believes in my way, and so does keeping peace.
Push sincerity to metaphysics, and the world will be public.