I share the beauty of poetry with the ancients.

I share the beauty of poetry with the ancients.

Author: a high Zhengzhou Foreign Language School, eleven classes Mei Chang Instructor: Yang Yingying spring.
Under the sea otter tree, falling to the ground. Leaning on the bamboo chair, holding a poem in his hand. Close to the Tablet, the eyes are slightly closed, if there is no ink scent from the distance, suddenly in the bottom of my heart. It seems as if the streamer is reversing, taking me through the millennium cloud...
Here, it is the land of the Weiguo. The wind blowing in the air during the spring and autumn is simple and warm, bringing the whisper of the Book of Songs. "Life and death are broad, and Zicheng said. Hold hands, and sons are old." That is the pure feelings of the husband and wife, beautiful without a little impurity, on the battlefield of thousands of horses, become the most blazing in the heart color. "The mountains are not edged, the heavens and the earth are combined, the summer rains and snows are dare and the princes!" How strong is that woman? In the face of her love, Heaven will let three points! "Shushushuo, no food, I am!" Spring and Autumn people are so dare to love, dare to hate, dare to speak, dare to be. The freedom in the Book of Songs is unconstrained, leaving a few warm backs to the later generations?
Lotus pond, moon shadow, Lanting, pulp sound. Has the beautiful woman who "stunned a gull heron" has returned to the shore? When Yi An was a girl, she also had the shyness of "the eye is waved and guessed", and the little joy of "the oblique flying duck lining Acacia". When love came and went, Yi’an experienced too much sorrow and joy. In her words, there is always a lingering sorrow. "Flowers drift from zero water, one kind of lovesickness, two leisure places", "Looking for shackles, cold and clear, miserable", the earthly dragons still pile up, what is she looking for? The family has broken and the country is in danger. There have also been feelings of "life as a person, death is also a ghost", but how can it not be too late to come to the wind, leaving it alone. What can't be found is not only the way back, but also the inability to avoid the loss. The loss of the mountains and rivers, the bitterness of the past and the separation.
"Slow stream is easy to throw people, red cherry, green banana." Jiang Jie's words, few complete and together, but there are always a touch of regret, a few gently sorrow. Time is ruthless, and the white-haired shackles are over. The Chinese youth in the past is full of Huafa, and there can be no emotion. I remember the "Listen to the Rain", the sadness of the ridiculous young age, standing under the door, but only sigh "sorrow and joy, always ruthless, before a step, to the dawn." The Tianjiang mines, the wind and the clouds are low, Jiang Jie's words are like a lonely geese, flying to the ferry of life. Just leave him to ask the white gull, "Is it to stay, is it my heart?"
The small building in the breeze and drizzle, the oil lamp is still yellow. Looking around, I can only faintly see the silhouette of a handsome man leaning against the window, holding the coffin of his deceased wife. Today, Fang sighs that "it was only ordinary at the time," feeling that "if life is just like the first sight." Life and death are only between the first line. When I look back, I only hate the millennium. Nalan Rongruo’s sorrow, deep into the blood, and melt into the universe. Recalling the happiness of "when the wine was shocked by the spring, and the gambling book was squandered with tea," I could only "contemplate the past and set the sun," and asked "Who is the West Wind?" Who will accompany him on a boat and drift around to appreciate the sadness and pleasure of life?
Dreams wake up, a tree pear flower, drifting in front of the eyes.
Those thoughts that have lost thousands of years are turned into poems and condensed into my heart. It’s also true and illusory, like a dream.
Spring dreams are no trace.