Modern poetry describing the four seasons

1. The small forest in the urban area has turned green. The humble life of ants and flying insects in my small forest has come under the soil with spring. I heard the sound of earthworms crawling and knocked down the closed door of the soil with their soft heads. On the grass of the small forest, I saw a group of goats waving their long beards and bleating a black goat that shook my youth and soul. Coming to me leisurely, there are tears of happiness on my face. 2. Pushing open the door of spring, I heard birds calling in the city. There are a few spring birds who dare not enter the city but cheer and jump outside the school. They are as simple as farmers in the countryside, which makes me sprout a kind of closeness. They are my friends and like relatives I met by chance. They are looking for unknown bugs to send friendly voices to their companions outside the school. I fell in love with the sound of birds. In the contention of birds, I pushed open the door of spring. This spring, this spring, my heart is in a mess. I think of some tombstones for a while, and I think of my childhood for a while. This spring, my heart is in a mess. My poems in spring have been written in spring. My poems are the leaves and crowns of spring. What else can I do in this spring? Who else can I embrace spring and time with? Rain passes through my chest. A voice drips from a very high place, like a long-haired girl shawl, and a black waterfall holds time tightly to me. Therefore, Being a dizzy elf in the boundless rain curtain, I can't tell who is the real irresistible desire. The drop of rain dances in the air and floats slowly in the sky. The accumulated strength seeps into my broad chest quietly from the unadorned clouds, so the waves in my chest stir up ripples and slap on the emotional shore reef. The waves of breath and a drop of rain nourish each other, and a drop of rain goes deep into my heart without any cover. Mix with my thoughts, then wash everything through the narrow space of my heart, and a ray of sunshine flies through the time to reach my clear sky. On February 23, 24, "Looking at a Snow in Spring" boarded the train bound for spring with a sharp sword of the season, ruthlessly scraped the restless bud, and let the small hand that had been cracked for a winter stretch out to hold the banner of hunting and chasing a snow in spring with one foot on it. The dialogue between spring and snow is precious. Snowflakes flow freely in six directions to send wet messages. In fact, spring has nothing to do with a snow, but it is a sudden cold in late spring. Hold on to everyone's love. Looking up, the contact between heaven and earth is fierce and purely along the slope of the season. The last snow and trees outside the window are waiting for February 3, 24. Looking at the horizon, branches droop and sigh, and the mist drips into the yearning for spring. A bud that quietly arches the frozen soil taps on the door of the earth. The sparrow that strolls freely disappears into the cracked trunk of the ice and enjoys love. The light kite in the suburbs drives the boat all the way to the territory of spring. The road is still muddy. Occasionally, pedestrians turn up their collars to shut the cold out of the door, while the sun shines in the spring door. On February 5, 24, I didn't make an appointment with a kite to fly my son to the top of a hill in the suburbs. I was so excited that a floating leaf flew in the distance. You came and I lay down to my wife and kissed the warm Achnatherum splendens all afternoon. I really wanted to take out my son's homework in his schoolbag and help him sweep it away. The lawn covered with wild flowers among the buildings, and then "moo" like a shepherd boy, the cows raise their hooves and spray beads to wake up the ears of spring from the river. Next to it are the young plants growing wildly in spring and the dense leaves on the ridge. Imagine that not long ago, it was this old buffalo who mumbled and promoted the pace of the season. An empty philosopher holding hands made various gestures to turn over the warm colors in the land through the cold eyes of the season. The cool classical figure is heavily inclined to the mud waves, and the plowshare and the old farmer are urged to carry the last feather of "Who Hunted the Feathers of Spring" on March 9, 24. After experiencing the abundant vitality, they hide under the wings of the deep spring twilight days, and a feather serenades safely and gracefully in the wind and gently licks and wipes the sails sailing in the sea of seasons. Fall out of favor again under the eaves of love, turn your back on the once romantic * * * Quietly, a drop of clear tears swims in the space of steaming clouds in spring. Yuan Ye sees the fading light bathing in the grinding of clouds. The fiery journey of controlling beautiful feathers at the sea and the sky can't be crossed by the smoke lock. Then, with a silent promise, he raises the pious prayer flags and goes far away. Who hunted the spring feathers but couldn't find the soaring sky to gather feathers on the branches of feelings? 24-3-8 "Waiting for the sun to rush" I think in a spring afternoon, maybe many things will be bored and look at the distant sky from the windowsill. The crowded downstairs is crowded with pedestrians who are in a hurry. They all look serious and witness other people's separate actions. On the one hand, the sky is clear with a lyrical pigeon feather and a beautiful pigeon whistle, and they glide unscrupulously between the kite and the breeze, casting a vigorous shadow movement and only choosing irregular strokes. The traces of the rope set up pigeons to bridge the distance with their open feathers, waiting for a beam of sunshine, preferably a long-lost one, to rush over, and then embraced them heartily. On February 2, 24, the car stomped wearily from the noise to the goal. The boiling Yuan Ye was silent. In the spring when rape blossoms were full, a group of bees came to the depths of the season as owners and lay smartly in the gap between the petals in the stamens. Seeing the wind dancing and stretching, breathing out the depression in the chest, parking the comfort and comfort on the way out of the window, a red apricot playfully broke through the wall along the drawn curtain, and the thick aroma mixed with the brewed alcohol made a car full of people dizzy in the rain. Go to hell, understand who Chun is, open the brand-new first page calendar, and it is a swallow flying in the rain? Is it a cuckoo spreading its wings in the clouds? Or, the sound of firecrackers in the sound of farewell? Who is it that sowed the first hope on the dry Yuan Ye, the hard-working ox on the yellow land? Is it father's white hair stained by wind and frost on his forehead? Or, the wrinkles on the mother's face are refuted by the annual rings. I only saw a wisp of drizzle and wind flying by, and in this way, your pretty cheeks were blown pink by apricot flowers and red by peach blossoms. In this way, you wake up a dream that has been sleeping for thousands of years and start to set foot on a new footprint. Before summer could put on a dress for you, the sun scorched your heart, bearing the entrustment of spring, and you carefully guarded your first promise. In the afternoon, the dark clouds swam through the whole clear sky, and then shed a moving tear and washed away the tired dust on the farmers' shoulders. At this time, the buds whose branches have just withered have given birth to new lives. In the chirp of crickets, the figure is slowly elongated, elongated ... People in the crops are waving sickles and hoes that have been gnawed by years, and writing some distant hopes with the poet's pen. Autumn sent away the last ray of hot sunshine in summer. You held the hand of the seed and helped you all the way through the two seasons. Just for the golden fruits hanging high in the branches everywhere, and the simple smiles of the farmers in the fields and fields. I can clearly see that their eyes are filled with tears of joy. Finally, the ears of grain in the paddy field quietly climbed to the top of the head of the once-seedling, bending the leaves; Also bend the back pressure of the reaper and bend the shoulder pole. You comfort the sweat of farmers who have been trekking for a long time with a bumper harvest. Swallows flying in the south are also sent away by you from the treetops after the fallen leaves have returned to their roots, and they spit out a trace of white fog affectionately, covering up their footprints at home, leaving only the blue sky and a long memory. Who is winter, putting an end to the last season of 36 days, and the snow falling on the top of the mountain? Is it the cold current that blew on the roof? Or, the thick cotton-padded jacket on the pedestrians in the village. Who is it, quietly sweeping away the colorful prosperity of the past, or is it a bug that sleeps underground secretly? Is it the lazy and dying sun? Or, the light tree that has been busy all his life? I can no longer see the apricot flowers flying in the slanting sun, and I can't hear the drizzle in the small building, which moistens the hearts of young girls. When you suddenly look back, you have fulfilled your last promise, grabbed a handful of unfinished white snow, sprinkled it all over the earth, and continued to lead the songs that are not old. In the biting wind, wait, wait … wait for the next spring. Spring (Modern Poetry) When the greenery of life climbed the door of my house and told me, The message of the wanderer's return: the butterflies in the garden are flying and dancing, and the pebbles awakened from hibernation have long dreamed of the sweet spring tribute at the beginning of the year (modern poetry). The warm wind of the equator can't stand the temptation of the ancient Great Wall, pick up the green carpet and quietly spread it to the north. It holds the spring elephant, sucks the milk of time, and is encouraged by the sunshine mother-in-law to playfully shake and play with the beard of the cold current in Siberia. Melt the ice and snow with fiery chest, generously give the blush on your face to Taolin, and carelessly throw away the smoke gauze tied around your neck, and wrap it around countless rivers. Swallows chase it with faltering steps, skim over the moist and silent sweat drops, and tear off pieces of white clouds to help it write down the charming fairy tale of natural change and seasonal change. Summer poems are washed by the rain in the midsummer sky, and the lonely pencil records the story of that year. Play back the scene like an old movie. You say I'm sorry, I love you, and then I shed tears. I'm at a loss. My dream will stay with me. The first summer after you left, I tried to record with the most beautiful poems about your helplessness. My fingertips were cold and I couldn't write warm words. Oh, baby, I still don't understand why you chose to leave me. Do you continue to wait for the phoenix tree leaves floating by the roadside and the green moonlight wandering outside the door? One day, the lost heart will come back to Blister on a Summer Night and trace back to the greener grass. But I can't play songs, quietly is a farewell flute; Summer insects are silent for me, too. Silence is a blister tonight! Before summer could put on a dress for you, the sun scorched your heart, bearing the entrustment of spring, and you carefully guarded your first promise. In the afternoon, the dark clouds swam through the whole clear sky, and then shed a moving tear and washed away the tired dust on the farmers' shoulders. At this time, the buds whose branches have just withered have given birth to new lives. In the chirp of crickets, the figure is slowly elongated, elongated ... People in the crops are waving sickles and hoes that have been gnawed by years, and writing some distant hopes with the poet's pen. Summer (Modern Poetry) Rain washes the sky in midsummer, revealing the loneliness all over the place with a pencil. The story of that year is played back like an old movie. You say I'm sorry, I love you, and then you shed tears. I'm at a loss, and my dreams will stay with me. The first summer after you left, I tried to record in the most beautiful poems about you and me, but I still don't understand why you chose to leave me, baby. Continue to wait for the phoenix tree leaves floating by the roadside and the green moonlight wandering outside the door. One day, the lost heart will come back. In Rainy Summer, Pan Xichen, you said that you had to let yourself like the summer rain because you were afraid of rainy days, and now I am so heartbroken because I forgot what a little girl's expression and mood would be when I remembered this sentence. Since then, I have known you as a season far from the rainy season. In the whole long autumn and winter days, there is not even a little * * * between us. The same memory, maybe our love is destined to start from the rainy season, but it's just that there is too much rain this summer and I'm never used to holding an umbrella. How can you bear my love like a rainstorm? How many times have I stood behind you and stared at you listening to the rain in front of the window? In fact, if I could look over your back at that time, I would know how heavy my mood was in the rainstorm, and how low the sky was in the rainstorm, or if I could just move over your shoulder and kiss you at that time, it would be earlier. Seeing your horror and your tears, when I wrote these words, our sky was thousands of miles apart. At this time, I don't know if it is raining in your sky, but does my lover still remember what I said? No matter what happens in this world, as long as you stand behind me, this is what I want to say to you the most in my life, but now all this can only be said to the rain. Originally, I thought I would use the hardships of the first 4 years. After 4 years of brilliant sunshine for you, but now it has become meaningless whether it is bitter wind or bright sunshine. Just let me come and live soon. Maybe there will be no rain in the sky in the next life. Maybe I can meet you in the next life without rain. I have completely exhausted my passion for life, squandered my passion all the way with my character, and finally exhausted it. It all started beautifully and ended unreasonably. Hurt, give up, swear, and deceive yourself. If time can go back, I'd rather die before I say my love every time. Autumn (Modern Poetry) "On the River in Autumn Night" Liu Dabai's homing bird, though it is trapped, still carries the setting sun back. Flip your wings and drop the setting sun on the river; The reeds with white heads are also made into a moment of beauty. Autumn (modern poetry) "Dove" Hu Shiyun is pale and the sky is high. What a late autumn weather! There are a flock of pigeons, playing in the air. Look at them in twos and threes, going back and forth in circles, and they are like meaning.-Suddenly, they turn over and reflect the sun, white lining the sky, very beautiful! (1918) "Autumn Morning" said goodbye to you. In the starry and frosty night, I suffered from the bitter sin that holy water is hard to wash. You stepped on my back. Welcome, Dongshu, you have come back to life! At this last moment, I opened my eyes and hugged the feet of the sun with both hands, watched the leaves tremble and danced, and listened to the sound of the city intoxicated until I shed tears of joy! (1934) "Shanghai-Hangzhou Train" Xu Zhimo was in a hurry! Hurry, hurry! A cigarette, a mountain, some clouds, a water, a bridge, a muffled sound, a pine, a clump of bamboo and red leaves: colorful fields, colorful autumn scenery, as clear as a dream, vague and hidden,-urge! Is it the wheel or the time? Urging the old autumn, urging the old life! (1928) "Whispering" Xu Zhimo's autumn rain in a first-class cold autumn pool, a gaunt autumn willow, a timid autumn branch, a piece of yellow autumn leaves, listening to him kiss and whisper Sanqiu's feelings, love story, finally gently brushed him off in the autumn eyes. The whisper of autumn rain, Sanqiu's love affair, love poem plot, also