One night the north wind is tight, open the door to the snow is still floating.

Into the mud, I pity the white, and on the ground, I pity the qiong yao.

It was my intention to honor the withered grass, not to decorate it.

The price of wine is high, and the year is ripe.

The sky is the limit, the sun is the limit, and the sky is the limit.

The cold mountains have already lost their green color, and the freezing river does not hear the tide.

The willow is easy to hang, the banana is hard to pile up.

Musk and coal are melting in a precious cauldron, and the sleeves of a beautiful woman are enveloped in a golden sable.

The light of the mirror in front of the window and the fragrance of the pepper on the wall.

The wind is still blowing and the dream is still talking.

Where is the plum blossom flute? Who has a jasper flute?

The ao worry Kun axis is sunk, the dragon bucket array cloud pinned.

Returning to the wild shore, I point to the Ba Bridge with my whip.

Giving me a coat to pity the garrison, and adding a piece of fluff to remember the laborers.

The anthills are dangerous, and the branches are afraid of being shaken.

It's a light step to take, and a dance to follow my waist.

Boiling taro is a new reward, sprinkling salt is an old favorite.

The strawberry raincoat is still used for fishing, and the forest axe is not heard of.

There are thousands of peaks, and a path of snakes.

The flowers are knotted by the cold, and the color is not afraid of the frost.

The deep courtyard frightens the finches, and the empty mountain weeps for the old owls.

The steps go up and down, and the water in the pool floats.

Shining in the morning, colorful into the night.

The coldness of three feet is forgotten, and the anxiety of the nine heavens is released.

Who will ask me if I'm lying in bed, and who will ask me if I'm a tourist?

They are the most important of all, but the most important of all is that they are the most important of all.

Loneliness and poverty are the main reasons why I am so happy to be here.

Cooking tea and boiling ice, boiling wine and boiling leaves are difficult.

There is no broom for the mountain monks to sweep, and there is no piano for the children to play.

The stone building is a place for cranes to sleep, and the brocade rug is a place for cats to kiss.

The moon grotto turns over the silver waves, and the Xia Cheng hides the red label.

The fragrance of the plums can be chewed, and the drunkenness of the bamboo can be tuned.

Or wet mandarin ducks belt, sometimes condensed jade warps.

Without the wind, there is still a pulse, and without the rain, there is also a dashing sound.

I wish to be happy today, and to wish Shun Yao with a poem.