The poem about farmers busy with autumn harvest is as follows:
"Moon on the Xijiang River·Walking on the Yellow Sand Road at Night"
Xin Qiji of the Song Dynasty
Bearing Moon Farewell Branches The magpies are startled, and the cicadas chirp in the breeze in the middle of the night.
The fragrance of rice flowers speaks of a good harvest, and the sound of frogs sounds.
Seven or eight stars are outside the sky, and two or three points of rain are in front of the mountain.
In the old days, by the forest of Maodian Society, I suddenly saw a bridge over a stream when the road turned.
In the autumn fields, the sun-drenched rice fields cluster into a golden ocean, rustling in the autumn wind, curved like a crescent moon sickle, gathering the joy of harvest.
The neat rice stubble is the string of the earth, singing softly accompanied by the cries of crickets, half falling in the autumn sun, and half bathed in starlight.
"Compassion for the Farmers"
Li Shen of the Tang Dynasty
It was noon on the day of hoeing, and sweat dripped from the soil.
Who knows that every meal on the plate is hard work.
When I was a child, the first ancient poem I came into contact with was "Compassion for the Farmers" by Li Shen. It can be said that it was passed down orally and became a household name.
Every grain of rice on the table and every millet of rice in the fields are hard-earned by the farmers with their sweat.
"Farmhouse"
Tang·Yan Renyu
In the middle of the night, the children are plowing at dawn,
The oxen are unable to move and are walking hard.
At that time, people did not realize the hardships of farming.
It was said that the grain in the fields grew by itself.
For farmers, the most beautiful things in the world are the blushing sorghum, the grinning corn grains, the yellow corn kernels and the smiling millet?
So, even if they need to plow the fields in the middle of the night, they will work tirelessly without saying a word about tiredness or suffering.
"Returning to the Garden and Living in the Fields·Part 3"
Tao Yuanming of Jin Dynasty
At the foot of the southern mountain where beans are planted, there are few bean seedlings in the grass.
In the morning, I clean up the wasteland and filth, and return with a hoe in the moonlight.
The road is narrow, the grass and trees are long, and the evening dew touches my clothes.
I don’t regret the stain on my clothes, but my wishes are fulfilled.
I recall that when I was plowing the fields, the crops I planted were not growing well, so I had to look under the stars and the moon and work tirelessly to take care of the newly emerged shoots.
The deep bushes, narrow pathways, and cold morning dew cannot diminish the joy of longing for a good harvest.