Autumn is like poetry

Reading Ouyang Xiu's "Autumn Sounds", the words are so miserable, but the fall in Mao Zedong's "Guan Yuan Chun Changsha" is so charming, I am confused, what is the autumn?

In the morning, the sun shone through the new green screen window. I opened the window, and the light wind plucked my hair. I licked my sleepy eyes, and my eyes were clear. Because it was just raining, the wet filter on the ground. The air is filled with the smell of moist grass and earthy smell. This fragrance is too attractive. I can't help but indulge in it. This is to understand that this is the taste of autumn rain and a prelude to autumn.

Gradually, it started to rain again, and the drizzle like the autumn girl was pouring out her own voice. I didn't hide, let the autumn rain moisten my face. The rain stopped and the birds sang cheerfully on the branches.

I walked into the park, and the road was full of white wild chrysanthemums. Under the command of the autumn wind musicians, the wild chrysanthemum girls danced in the wind. Of course, the wild chrysanthemums did not have the chrysanthemums in the pots, but they always made people I can't get tired of it, the white coat, people can't help but think of the dancers in white dresses, performing gorgeous dance on the stage.

The leaves are naturally the protagonists in the autumn. Although they have just entered the autumn, many leaves have fallen. They have made a few spins in the air. They are reluctant to leave the big tree mother. The wind blows up and the leaves are again. Once in the air, dancing and laughing... The golden wind is cool, and in this golden world, I feel very comfortable.

From time to time, there are several swallows of geese flying to the warm south. They seem to know the cold winter coming soon through the autumn wind. It is time to move.

Autumn is Du Mu's "parking and sitting in love with Fenglin night, frosty leaves are red in February." Autumn is Wang Bo's "falling clouds and lonely flying, the autumn water is a long day."

I realized that the autumn is like poetry, and autumn is like poetry...

The first day: the end of the flower