Poems about praising beautiful songs 1. A poem in praise of singing.
This song should only exist in the sky. How many times can the world listen to it?
Big strings hum like rain, and small strings whisper like secrets.
I heard voices in several places in the air, and I wanted to fly around Yunfei.
Singing to the throat of the bamboo branch, the cold ape and the bird crowed for a while.
A river full of children, see how hard she tries to hold back her tears.
Every word of singing red plums, willow branches and peach leaves are hidden deep.
Poetry describing singing
1, the song continues. The feelings of the chorus suddenly rose and were greatly exaggerated. Sun Nan's penetrating voice is like tears. Blood is thicker than water, and feelings are as heavy as mountains. The true blood of the Chinese nation is slowly flowing on the ruins of the earthquake-
2. That song floated from the other side of the river, like a breeze blowing through my heart; That song floated from the countryside and rippled in the night sky of the city, which was particularly extraordinary; That song floated from my memory, played back in my life, embellished my life and ignited my hope.
3. Music has a metallic texture, which connects the clang of swords into a strange musical snowfield. That is the beauty of strength, the voice of the strong, the love of children, and the spirit of heroes. Music collides with the listener's heart, with strong * * * sound and interaction, just like a flying butterfly dancing in the snowfield, with intoxicating music, it melts into the same snow scene. ...
4. There is a silvery clarity in the voice of female soldiers, and at the same time it seems to contain a kind of sadness of "sand, sand". Just like piccolo and saxophone played alternately in a woodwind band, it was always at arm's length with the voices of fifty people, and reached perfect harmony with the surrounding moonlight and the mood of officers and men at that time. At the same time, like dew, it pours on the newly planted stems in Nahana, adding three points of vitality to the vegetable ridge that has just been given life. These are not enough. Listening attentively, I seem to hear a contradiction in the song, including encouragement, sadness, nostalgia, regret and fantasy.
2. Which poem does the music teacher praise the students for their singing skills?
This song should only exist in the sky. How many times can people listen to it?
Birds wander for it, and strong men cry.
The reverberation lasted for three days.
The elegy of mourning is very sonorous.
Confucius heard that there was too little joy, but he didn't know the taste of March meat.
The night is heavy and the sky is still young, and Yun Lan dances; The Jade Emperor rose in the air, and the moon was full and the Lishan Palace leaked long.
Wu Si, Shu and Zhang Tong are in high autumn, and the empty mountains are not flowing.
Jiang Yue wept for Motome's sadness, while Ping Li was playing China.
Kunshan jade broken Fengming, hibiscus crying, Xianglan laughing.
The cold light melts in front of the twelve gates, and the twenty-three silk moves the purple emperor.
Nu Wa makes up the sky by refining stones, and the stones break the ground to stir up the autumn rain.
Dream into the holy mountain to teach the gods, and the old fish dance with the waves.
Wu Mian leans against the laurel tree, showing his feet and flying obliquely to wet cold rabbits.
Xiao, Zheng, flute and chisel are mixed together, and the percussion bomb blows loudly.
In the middle sequence, the bamboo poles crack in autumn and break the ice in spring.
Countless voices are urgent, jumping beads shake jade. Xiang Luan's dance is full of wings, and the crane song ends.
I haven't heard this song since 1989 fell into the world. Listen to mandrills in the city, and cuckoos crow under the dam.
If you didn't see me, my song said: and broke the tune of rainbow skirt and feather coat; I never saw it again. I have a poem: Qu Aini hasn't filmed it yet.
She brushed the strings, slowly twisted, swept and plucked, first the air in the rainbow skirt, then the six small ones.
Big strings hum like rain, and small strings whisper like secrets.
Humming, whispering-and then mixing together, like pouring large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
Between Guan Ying's words, the bottom of the flower is slippery, so you can't swallow the spring scenery and flow under the ice.
The ice spring is cold and astringent, and the strings condense, and the condensation will never stop.
The depth of sadness and the hiding of sadness are more told in silence than in voice.
A silver vase suddenly burst, pouring out a stream of water, jumping out of the conflict and blow between armored horses and weapons.
Before she put down the pick, her stroke was over, and all four strings made a sound, just like tearing silk.
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