It seems that the library is always a passing building.
I don't want him to sprout quietly.
From that accidental entry,
The smell of books,
Like a fresh and elegant breeze,
Blowing into my heart,
I understand what eating alive is not reading;
The meaning of books
Like the most meaningful thing in the frivolous years,
Deep down in my heart,
I know what a roll in my hand is. What can I ask?
It sits by the window in hot summer.
Unique fragrant tea,
Where is the Yujiang River, the gloomy buildings in the south of the Yangtze River,
When is the bright moon there?
Or indulge in Liuhua Bridge in Jiangnan Water Town.
Or holding a volume of feelings about countless experiences of literati.
I just feel cool.
Sitting quietly at the table in the cold winter wind,
Taste poetry, recite sentences,
The soft morning sun rippled on the blue sea.
There is a happy side facing the sea.
Or the sun enters my heart playfully, like a blooming sunflower,
Or the drizzle beats your heart,
Dare to blow into my heart.
There is no noise in the market here.
There are no quarrels and crowds on the streets of the town.
Some are the sound of turning pages quietly,
Have a plenty of quiet and quiet in the bustling city.
Repeat the rising and setting of the sun day after day,
Embrace this book,
That is to taste the delicacy and delicacy of life.
Lying next to Qianshan at home,
Stand still and watch Yun Qi from the window.
Sitting quietly at the table, smelling the book,
Warm in winter and cool in summer,
This was born.