The lyrics of wu Qi, a Qing Dynasty lyricist, last night the west window was steep, and huangmei was thinned, and he lost his wings and flew away, cold night, spring light, and yingchun minus magnolia flowers, one reminiscences, picking mulberries, and his second inscription, repentance, reading away from the miscellaneous drama Huanxi Sha Qingxi Meet HuanXi, seeing each other, and third, going to meet and rejoice, and fourth, not dreaming

Qing Dynasty: Wu Qi

Last night, the west window was steep and thinned huangmei again. People are annoyed by the fragrance of flowers, and look at the sky and the mountains are old.

The crane called the empty garden frost moon small, and the night came to freeze the clouds like dawn. Whoever believes in sentimentality, Acacia gradually feels less poetic madness.

Spring also, when is it? No one knows. First go to Yu'er's head and take the flowers and branches.

Twelve paintings of the floor curtain rolls, red makeup laughter is uneven. Scramble to the color banner to form a team to see the zhuyi.

Wherever the end of the world, the herbs are built into intestinal circuits. If you want to send away sorrows, you are afraid to listen to Zhenghong and not lean on the building.

The piano is lazy and lazy, and the willow yu money is getting late in the spring. Spelling is desolate, night lights flower thin shadow long.

Xiao Xiang was sad throughout the ages, the song was also heard by whom, and the complaint was also heard by whom, and I was also a haggard person by the river.

Qingshan paper-cut returned late, several degrees of summoning souls, several degrees of soul loss, not as good as Gao Tang a cloud.

A few empty streams of jasper. After the sister-in-law returned, she collected the smoke. Idle to rest and lean on the tungsten.

Green trees are difficult to cover March hate, and the blue clouds take a river and autumn. That's reminiscent of the teenage tour.

Come and go in a hurry, poor Nong. I am sorry for the Xie family in the mingyue pavilion.

Where to see, who to discern, the dream is gone. That swallow out a spring red.

Half of the window is hazy with a remnant of the moon, painting the east of the bridge. In the dream, the man sat on a small screen.

Empty hate, hard to find, hate in a hurry. To be cherished and cherished.