There is fog and ripe fruit in autumn.
You become friends with the mature sun;
You conspired to use countless beads,
The eaves of Mao are covered with vines;
Let the old tree in front of the house bear apples,
Let the ripe taste penetrate into the heart of the fruit,
Make the gourd swell and bulge the hazel shell,
Good into the sweet core; For bees.
Flowers that bloom late again and again,
Let them think that the days will be warm forever,
Because summer fills their sticky nests very early.
2
Who doesn't often see you with the barn?
You can also find it in the fields.
You sometimes sit on the threshing floor at will,
Let the hair flutter gently with the wind of winnowing the grain;
Sometimes, addicted to the fragrance of poppies,
You're lying on a half-harvested ridge,
Let the sickle rest next to the flowers in the flower bed next door;
Or, like a gleaner across a stream,
You hold your head high, carry a grain bag, and cast your reflection.
Or sit under a fruit juicer for hours,
You patiently looked at the slowly dripping wine slurry.
Where in Haruka? Yes, where is it?
But forget it, you have your music-
When the sunset glow reflects the dying day like a wave,
Let carmine paint the broken fields,
At this time, there are a group of small flying insects under the willows by the river.
They all started to lament, and suddenly they flew very high.
Suddenly falling, ups and downs with the breeze;
In the garden, crickets under the fence are singing.
Red-breasted robins whistle;
And the sheep cry loudly and silently in the mountain circle;
Swallows in Cong Fei are whispering in the sky.