The wind becomes quieter, the night becomes deeper, the small moon is cold outside the window, and who sleeps with sorrow. The curtains are covered with wadding and the candlelight remains. Who thinks about the past and is sad to say goodbye, but hides the melancholy and falls into Bixuan.
In the dream, I can see the tears of lovesickness, the youthful beauty of the past life, the fragrance of music and music fills the path. I want to lightly break the plum blossoms to leave the lingering fragrance, but the people leave again, leaving only the old railings.
When I wake up from the dream, the hustle and bustle has faded away, and the vicissitudes of life in the dust have been washed away, and the old appearance lingers quietly in the dimly lit place, outside the deep corridor, chilling the plum blossoms of this season. fragrant.
The light pen and ink, the shallow whispers, can shed countless tears of separation, and tell endless sorrows and sorrows. The moon is pale and the Milky Way, the fallen leaves are raining one after another. Drinking a cup of turbid wine can cut off the sorrow in the heart. Who is crazy about whom and who is frivolous? Let this love and scene rest now.
Last night there was all singing and dancing in the courtyard, today the garden is full of fallen flowers, and there are spare poems wrapped around the hanging beams, but the snow falls silently. Looking at the falling flowers from a distance, I can hardly smell the chirping of insects and birds. The falling snow suppresses the cold plum blossoms, and I can only smell the fragrance of the remaining flowers.
By the breeze, on the bank of willows, who buries all the tenderness of yesterday’s flowers. The night is still young, with sparse shadows and fragrant fragrance, a clear song makes the snow, moon, wind and flowers drunk.
Recalling the past when we were together and looking at the wind and moon, I have no dreams of leaving the pavilion tonight. The courtyard is deep, and I count the steps alone, looking at the cold night plum blossoms. I shed tears without saying a word. The fleeting youth is not worth the loss of years; the blooming of flowers is as beautiful as a beauty; how can one know that one's face is old when the flowers fall? When spring comes and spring goes, it comes back again, how can one know that spring is infinitely good?
The beauty is gone, who appreciates the beauty, and wants to hold the winter snow to leave the lingering fragrance, but the flying snow turns into ruthless tears. After dancing, the tears in the butterfly clothes have faded. Who will be delirium in the forest stage with the wind and moon? After worshiping the moon for a while, I will wander around. The remaining beauty has no merits and demerits. The tears and laughter will be left blank in the sky. The dew is floating in the dew and is buried in the shadow.
Leaning alone on the railing, looking at each other from a distance, the way home is blurred by the falling snow, and the sky and earth are white and the sky is boundless. Looking at the light frost in the night, I feel a little melancholy. Who still misses the old beauty, but regards the waning moon in the water as a mirror flower.
Manwu held the pen in her hand, caressed the harp in her arms, played a song about the passing snow, composed a song about burying flowers, and expressed her life's melancholy inside and outside the courtyard.
The plum blossoms fall, but the lingering fragrance remains, adding sadness to the farewell. Pick up the remaining flowers and put them next to the burial tree. The flowers will bloom here at the end of autumn and winter.
The young man's clothes are messy and his hair is white, and he is haggard, floating outside in the wind and snow. Let it be young and beautiful, but in the end it will be nothing more than the yellow beam of a Qingqiu dream.
Old thoughts are as real as a dream, with worries on the brows, a flash of infatuation, and a drunken spell, and when will I finally rest? The snow cannot relieve my sorrow, and dreams cannot stay. I sigh at the empty flowers of the eternity, and miss the love in the world of mortals. , this affection is hard to end.
The courtyard is deep, with winding paths, a cold gauze cabinet with jade pillows, and wine is poured into the evening, leaving room for three or two tragic poems. The breeze is shattered and there is no trace. Where does the love go? I bear the pain and don't look for it. I stay melancholy until the moonlight.
I think I saw the adaptation of this article. I checked ancient books and found no verses about such loneliness and desolation