The chirping of insects frightens my thoughts, and the fireflies are white under the tree. Passers-by don't know each other, they go back and forth alone with each other holding hands. The boat was released into Dianchi Lake, and Qingbo was appointed as the governor of the river. The clouds will clear the sky tomorrow, and the morning breeze will blow into my arms.
Reading at night by the lamp, the sound of insects came from the yellow chrysanthemum bush in the corner of the courtyard, stopping and continuing, rising and falling, with a hint of the flat and oblique rhythms in poetry, leisurely in the autumn night. Play and sing.
Summer is a song, and the croaking of frogs and the chirping of insects is a variation; summer is a poem, and the rain hitting the banana trees is refreshing; summer is a painting, and the moonlight on the lotus pond is the artistic conception.
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The fire is flowing and the grass and insects are chirping. The frost has fallen and there is no vegetation. Autumn is coming, and it's time to march. I miss the beauty and worry about Ping Ying.
Sitting alone with sad temples, the hall is empty for the second time. Mountain fruits fall in the rain, and grass and insects chirp under the lamp.
The butterflies dance all the time, and the orioles sing at ease.
In the meantime, I heard something at dawn and dusk. The cuckoo sang and the blood ape screamed.
Tonight I know that spring is warm, and the sound of insects is new through the green window screen.
The night is endless, bursts of frogs are flowing out of the boundless darkness, the whispers of running water are erratic, the desperate chirping of insects is rising and falling in the night, and the stars and moon have long been lost in the pale sky. trace.
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