The spring of the Garden opened up my boudoir, and I thought of the sadness of my beloved, and my endless sorrow and sorrow grew with the grass growing day by day. In the flowers, the Oriole sings gently, and the thin spring mist floats on the branches of red apricot.
In the mind of sorrow, looking at the fence, a pair of eyebrows are thin and long. Yu Lang did not come home, but saw Liu Ying slanting along the corridor. In the willow's swing, my dream soul is in illusion, and my thoughts are chasing the flying poplar, searching in the horizon, wandering in the horizon.
