The tenderness in the world is just the rain that stirs up the fallen flowers, and the time is paved on the stone steps; the deep love in the world is just the spring breeze turning into the rain, and the plain pen and ink are used to outline your original appearance.
The paper notes of time are spread coolly in a curtain of spring rain. The cups and cups of the exchange of seasons, the deep and shallow veins, are engraved with the prelude of spring.
In the rainy season, the river breaks the ice and the wild geese return north; when the sweet rain falls, all things are blessed.
The "Collection of the Seventy-Two Hours of the Moon Order" says:
"In the first month of the year, water is born in the sky. The beginning of spring belongs to wood, but what produces wood must be water, so the beginning of spring The rain will follow. And when the east wind thaws, it will disperse and turn into rain. "
The rainwater season, the wind and clouds disperse, and then turn into rain. The sky is beginning to warm, the flowers are beginning to bloom, the mountains are beginning to turn green, and the water is beginning to be joyful. Shake off the coldness of time and encounter Ikawa Asakusa.
The beginning of rain, the beginning of peach blossoms
The spring rain is like silk, tender and full of sorrow and sorrow, and carries with it long-term thoughts. The new green grass in the corner is moist and clean, and the branches are just beginning to bloom. The petals are spotless.
The peach blossoms bloom all over the fields and fields, and no one in the world can be seen. The drizzle and breeze blew through the petals on the branches and fell into the ripples of spring water.
The flowers bloom all over the city, half on the branches, half on the streets, half in the rain, and half in the heart. The breeze is gentle, the light rain is like crisp, the orioles are beginning to understand their words, the leisurely sorrow is like wine, the spring scenery is charming, and a curtain of peach blossoms rains.
Good rain knows the season, and spring will happen. Sneaking into the night with the wind, moistening things silently.
The rain always brings a touch of melancholy and a faint poetic feeling. The long alleys, the spring grass in the pond, and the moss on the rocks all breed affection because of the mist and rain.
Walking in the scroll of spring, let the breeze blow through the clothes, leaving gentle ripples; let the drizzle moisten the fingertips, writing the warmth of the years.
There are three phases of rain: the first phase is when otters sacrifice fish; the second phase is when swans come; the third phase is when vegetation sprouts.
The remaining mountains and water are left, and once the rain falls, the boundless spring scenery sprouts. The green hills are long, the dew and grass are green, the landscape is freehand, the thick ink is light, and the clear and light depend on each other.
Asakusa and secluded trees are quietly dyed with fresh green. There is also the new branch of the tree, wandering reservedly in the rain and mist, humbly bathing in the spring light.
The spring rain is like crisp, hitting the time slightly cool, refreshing and moistening several early plum trees, a stream of spring water, and a stone bridge.
The morning wind blows away the frost between the eyebrows, and smears a small window with a garden of thoughts and worries.
The peach blossoms fall quietly, coming like rain, with the affection of spring rain, the beauty of the season, covering the plain paper and the fragrance of time.
Cut a piece of spring light to make up for the long years
Drink a pot of lovesickness and be intoxicated everywhere; write a volume of flower language and send it to spring; carry flowers along the way and return with spring in your arms.
The clouds are light and the wind is gentle, walking while singing, shaking off the wind and frost of time, letting the passing clouds and smoke fall into the scenery, slowly walking into the spring rain that brings sadness to flowers and melancholy from falling rain.
The past events of the years have turned into twilight mist and smoke, the fragrance of lotuses stirred by the wind, the lingering clouds of the setting sun, the old friends in the sun, and the dark mountains have all been dyed into rouge tones by prosperous dreams, brewing. With bright and elegant feelings.
With vast expanse of lake and glazed mountains, I sit quietly under the peach blossom tree, waiting for someone to write a poem.
Write about the blooming mountain flowers along the way, the five colors of time, the lingering clouds in the stream, and the formation of falling plum blossoms; write about a branch of peach blossom, slanting through the courtyard wall, carrying last night's rain and dew, rustling down; write about A man of unparalleled magnificence stood under the peach blossom tree and gave me a beautiful encounter.
Spring is coming, bid farewell to the snow of the old year, enjoy the spring scenery with the people you like, see through the scenery of thousands of rivers and mountains, and look down on the passing years.
Looking at the flowers blooming before they cool down, listening to the rain falling over the city, the love lasts for many years
The spring water is born, the spring forest is blooming, the spring breeze is ten miles away, who is not as good as you
In the beautiful shadow of peach blossoms, a promise is made; who in the dreamy mist and rain briefly stores the trance time.
The elegant rice paper is lightly dyed with ink and outlined with plain brushes, giving off the appearance of a beautiful flower.
In the long time, the time flickers and fades, the moonlight is as old as before, and the story of meeting each other that year is clear and clear.
In the bright season, language loses its color, and lovesickness forgets the sadness. Clear and shallow thoughts, passing through the plain brocade, are like rain hitting banana trees, intoxicating a lifetime of love.
Is all the prosperity gone and turned into mist in the end? Whether all the bright moon and spring breeze are the colors of poetry and wine.
Reciting a piece of fireworks, listening to a song of still moonlight, encountering a few light rains in Asakusa, playing songs and drunken dreams, the east wind blowing water, messing up the passing years.
Watching the spring blossoms, listening to the dreams falling among the flowers, the bright moon dancing in the breeze, the light rain passing through the spring city, dancing ink into poems, the flowers blooming, where is the young man who has been lingering?
Pick a piece of rain color, and the heart of spring is budding.
Boil a pot of spring sunshine to accompany the years of love.
? Excerpt for learning