八月秋高风怒号,卷我屋上三重茅。茅飞渡江洒江郊,高者挂罥长林梢,下者飘转沉塘坳。南村群童欺我老无力,忍能对面为盗贼,公然抱茅入竹去,唇焦口燥呼不得,归来倚杖自叹息。俄顷风定云墨色,秋天漠漠向昏黑。布衾多年冷似铁,娇儿恶卧踏里裂。床头屋漏无干处,雨脚如麻未断绝。自经丧乱少睡眠,长夜沾湿何由彻! The high winds raged in the autumn of August and rolled my house on a triple curtain. Maofei Dujiang spilled out of the suburbs, the taller ones hanging long Lin Pin, the next floating Shen Tang. Nancun groups of children bully me old and weak, bear the opposite for the thieves, openly hold Mao Mao into the bamboo, lip coke mouth dry and breathable, returning from the rod sigh. Russia is determined to be clouded by ink, and it is dark in autumn. The fabric was cold and iron-like for many years. There was no drain on the headboard, and the foot of the rain was not cut off. Since I lost sleep, I would like to have a long night’s sleep.