Ancient poems
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In the morning rain at Wei City, the light dust is moistened; the inn is green, with fresh willow leaves!
I urge you to drink one more cup; beyond Yangguan Pass, there will be no old friends.
I must drink three hundred cups at once, to share with you the sorrows of eternity.
In August, the winds blow strong and the autumn howls; they sweep away the three layers of thatch on my roof
Swallows that once nested in the halls of noble families now fly into ordinary people’s homes
Birds together on the sand, dusk by the pond; clouds part and the moon appears, as flowers cast their shadows: D
I will reach the summit and see all other mountains as small
Orchids sing for miles amid green and red hues; in riverside villages and mountain towns, wine shop banners flutter in the wind. Four hundred and eighty temples in the Southern Dynasties; how many towers stand shrouded in mist and rain?