何事能消旅馆愁,红笺开处见银钩。
蓬山雨洒千峰小,嶰谷风吹万叶秋。
字字朝看轻碧玉,篇篇夜诵在衾裯。
欲将香匣收藏却,且惜时吟在手头。
What can melt away the melancholy of lodging at an inn?
When I open the red notepaper, I see the fine lines of your writing.
Rain sprinkles Penglai all other peaks grow small,
The wind blows in Xie Valley myriad leaves touched by autumn.
In the morning I read word after word, more precious than green jade,
And at night beneath my coverlets I recite page after page.
I’ll pack your poem away in a fragrant casket,
But for now I’ll take it in hand and chant it.
Penglai Mountain, beyond the eastern sea, was the abode of the immortals; the Xie Valley to the remote west was held to be the place of origin of musical pipes.
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