The weather cleared up, and it was warm. Yueyao pulled Xiang Wei out of the yard. The roadside was filled with tender green grass sprouting from the ground.
Yueyao softly recited, "In the second or third month of spring, the grass is the same color as the water."
Xiang Wei rolled her eyes at Yueyao, "You still won't admit you've gone crazy with poetry." The constant recitation was wearing Xiang Wei a bit thin.
Yueyao chuckled softly, "The teacher said that if you can memorize all those poems and recite them backwards, even if you can't create poetry, you can still recite it." Although this method is a bit cumbersome, being diligent has its benefits, laying a good foundation. Yueyao feels that after more than a year, she has gained some insight into composing poems.
