Yang Wanli's Poems on Mushrooms

Author: Yang Wanli

The empty mountains are rainy and the mountains are urgent, and the osmanthus and pine juice are floating.

The soil paste is loose and warm, and the mushroom balls are steamed out.

Wearing fallen leaves, I suddenly stood up and pushed away hundreds of fallen leaves.

The wax surface is yellow and purple, and the crisp stems are delicate and crisp.

Sound like goose's feet, sweet as honey, smooth as silk.

An umbrella is not as good as a nail in a hat, and its fragrant teeth are beyond the reach of musk deer.

Raising lambs, chickens are free from feasts, and jade ruzhi is a grain.

You can't make a soup in a day, but you can still store surplus when you make wax.