Modern poems imitating plants are as follows:
The sun is sweet and soft in summer nights, and plants are singing and laughing in the morning. Sprouting in the spring, the new moon is full of flowers. The vegetation is full of enthusiasm, and the spring is full of splendor. The green trees are full of songs and sigh at night, and the joy is like a spring dream. Flowers and plants add profusion, and they are extremely beautiful and dazzling. The sound outside is passionate, and the plants welcome the spring. There is another village with a dark willow and a bright flower, but only plants have spirituality.
The green leaves are blooming beautifully, and the vitality is overflowing before our eyes. How mysterious the branches and leaves are, bathed in moonlight and intoxicated by the night. A bright moon shines everywhere, and plants are all quiet. Branches meander like streams, and slender waist adorns the night sky. Plants and time are active, and the green sound is always warm. ?
Poems that can be quoted about writing plants (ancient poems)
After all, the scenery of the West Lake is different from that of the four o'clock in June when I saw Lin Zifang and Yang Wanli in Jingci Temple. Lotus leaf in the next day is not to be green, the lotus is particularly bright red in the sun. The ancient style of Li Bai and Bihe gave birth to a secluded spring, and the morning sun was bright and fresh. Autumn flowers emit green water, and dense leaves are full of smoke. The beautiful powder is peerless, and who will pass on the fragrance? Sit and watch the flying frost fade away.
I'm willing to trust the edge of Huachi since I haven't got my roots. Plum blossoms Wang Anshi counted several plums in the corner, and cold ling opened them alone. I know from afar that it is not snow, because there is fragrance coming. Under Wang Jun's tomb, there is no boy in Li He's life, and he still sings the dragon in the water.
white grass invades smoke to death, and autumn quinoa turns red around the ground. Ancient books are flat with black stone, and Excalibur is broken with bronze. Farming potential scales up, and the grave is closed. Chrysanthemum hangs wet and dew, and the spine diameter lies dry. Pines and cypresses are sad and fragrant, and there are a few nights of wind in Nanyuan. Yan Zhenggong's house and Du Fu's green bamboo are half-covered, and the new shoots are out of the wall. The color invades the book late, and the shade is cooler than the wine bottle. The rain washes Juanjuan clean, and the wind blows fine fragrance.