Poetry dedicated to retired teachers

There is a group of people who accompany us from naivety to maturity, from ignorance to civilization. They are teachers. The poem we want to dedicate to retired teachers is that silkworms in spring are spinning until they die, and candles drain the wick every night. Your father is full of peaches and plums, so why plant a variety of flowers in front of the hall? New bamboo is taller than old bamboo, and their growth is supported by old branches. I quit my job and go home, just like a flower falling from a branch, but this is not a heartless thing. It can be turned into the soil of spring and can also play a role in nurturing the next generation.