Before leaving, I had a stitch for fear that my son would come back late and his clothes would be damaged. Who can say that a filial child like the weak can repay his mother's love like the sunshine in spring?
"Yan's Showing Liu Sou" chose Bai Juyi and Si Er as the Youth Day, flying high with his mother. At that time, my parents thought that I should know today.
In the Tenth Five-Year Plan, Wang Anshi put his mother in the ditch and left his home in the shade. When I heard about Du Yu in the moonlight, I was always worried about the North and the South.
"Going home at the end of the year" Jiang Shiquan loves his son endlessly and is happy to go home. Cold clothes are needle and thread, and letters from home are ink stains.
If you encounter pity, you will ask for it. I am ashamed of the son of man and dare not sigh.
Memories of Time Past Song Wuling Yun Yan Shu's book is broken. What do you hate in both places? The dream soul is not afraid of Chang 'an, and borrows the wind to ask for daily life several times. "Thinking of Mother" is full of respect and frost, the reed flowers are wet with tears, and the bald head has no dependence on Chai Fei.
Last May, Huang Meiyu Zeng Dian returned to his hometown as a cassock. "In Memory of Mother" Ni Ruilong's river is too wide to sail, and I wonder if it is near.
When I am in the dark, I am afraid I will cry more! My mother is like a bright light in the dark. When I lose my way, she will guide me to the light. My mother is like the bright moon on an autumn night. When I am lonely and helpless, she will accompany me and give me full confidence.
My mother is busy for me all day, tireless, and has no regrets. On this annual Mother's Day, I want to say thank you! -This document is for all mothers in the world, rich or poor. Mom, can you brush off the frost that has turned gray on your temples with the hands of dead tree skins? I know that the bow of the red ribbon bleached the black hair that I remember for a long time.
Mom, as if nothing had happened, you can still gently twist your loose teeth. Singing songs that are still fresh in my childhood, laughing with tears, memories are snakes of missing.
Draw a word and move forward in a zigzag way. My mother, who has residual pain in this life, still licks my arrogant poison with this cracked tongue core. I will never grow up in front of you, so a vague topic called maternal love is undoubtedly a wanderer and the most stupid person who hurts his mother. You used to be as famous as chrysanthemum, and you are old. There are still some fragrant silk on the edge of the white porcelain bottle.
I have brushed my love heart in sports, but I still can't hide your concern. The crazy autumn wind has begun. Even in the lonely shadow, mom, don't catch cold.
No matter when and where, the sunset depends on a crutch called a child. You, the seeds covered with vegetation on fertile soil are sprouting and growing, and I, at this moment. I just want to hear you call my name.
In a trance, mother, I seem to be back in the yard, the mother who drew water from the well when I was a child-Mother's Day is dedicated to all mothers in the world. Your silver hair, rickety body and lonely figure are all old. You associate with the neighboring village, you are 80 years old, and you still draw water yourself. Cooking by yourself, you still cling to my childhood dream hometown. It is the pride of your life to support our four children and four children all your life. The pigeons you let go are the concern of your life. When you talk about being kind to people, the hope of survival is always on your face. How can a mother who has gone through so many hardships write thousands of words with a blunt pen? I have been praising my mother. My mother is a big ship, carrying me to the sea to pursue the mystery of life. The magical mother of the world is a mountain, which contains everything to cultivate me to become strong. My physical and mental mother is a touching song, which takes me all over the country and sings the history of the motherland with her beautiful tunes. Mother is the spring breeze that blows everything in the world and brings vitality between steps. Mother is a spring rain, nourishing everything on the earth! Mom, I love you. You are my favorite forever. In my heart, there is a place that is unfathomable, but no one has ever asked. You are the fire of hope, illuminating my future and hope. Every dark night, I care about you. Every cold night, you give me endless warmth. It is raining in the sky, and every drop of rain is telling.
Your pale fingertips touch my temple. I can't help holding on to your skirt like when I was a child. My mother tried to keep your disappearing figure. Although the morning light has cut my dream into smoke, I still dare not open my eyes for a long time. I still cherish that bright red scarf, for fear that washing it will make it lose your unique warmth. Isn't the running water of my mother's years just as ruthless, afraid that my memory will fade? How dare I open its screen easily? I cried to you for a thorn. Now I'm wearing a watch and dare not moan. Mom, I often look up at your photos sadly. Even if I call to penetrate the loess, how dare I disturb your sleep? I dare not show the sacrifice of love like this.
2. Poems about maternal love (foreign countries or ancient and modern China) Mother, can you use the hands of dead tree skins?
Brush off the frost that has turned gray on your temples? I know
The bow of the red ribbon bleached the black hair in my memory.
Long time no see. Mother, as if nothing had happened.
Or wriggle a loose tooth gently?
It's neither too tight nor too slow. Laugh in tears
Sing some songs that are still fresh in my childhood.
Memory is the snake of missing. Draw a word
Winding forward, my bitter ink in this life.
Mom, are you still willing to use this cracked tongue core?
Lick my arrogant poison. I am in front of you.
Always a child who doesn't grow up.
So there is a vague topic called maternal love.
It is undoubtedly the stupidest injury to a wanderer.
Mom, you are old. You used to be as famous as chrysanthemums.
The edge of the white porcelain bottle has your residual medicine fragrance.
Plain silk was very popular in the old days. manage
Brushed the heart of love, but still
I can't hide your crazy concern.
The autumn wind has started. Even in the shadow of loneliness, mom
Don't catch cold either. No matter when and where
Sunset depends on a crutch called a child.
And you, on fertile soil.
Seeds covered with vegetation are sprouting and growing.
And I, at the moment. I just want to hear your call.
My real name. In a trance, mother
I seem to be back in the yard, next to the well where I drew water as a child.
3. Write foreign modern poems and ancient poems about maternal love. To my mother Goethe, although she hasn't greeted you for a long time and wrote to you, don't let you doubt it, as if your son's due love for you has disappeared from my chest.
Not at all, just like the stone that has taken root at the bottom of the water forever, it will never leave its original place, even if it is running water, sometimes there are storms, and sometimes there are soft waves flowing through it, making people invisible. My love for you is inseparable from my chest, even though the long river of life is sometimes whipped by pain, violently rolled, and sometimes quietly caressed by joy. Note: Selected from Selected Poems on Foreign Topics (Baihua Literature and Art Publishing House, 1994 edition).
Translated by Qian Chunkun. The next poem comes from the same source.
Goethe (1749-1832) is a German poet, novelist and thinker. His masterpieces include the poetic drama Faust and the novel young werther.
This poem was written in May 1767.
4. Poetry in urgent need of praise for mother (foreign country): In front of two portraits of my mother, in front of two portraits of my mother, a beautiful young girl who loved this portrait, my mother drew it many years ago, when her forehead was white and there was no shadow in the dazzling Venetian glass she stared at. But another portrait shows deep furrows in the white marble on her forehead. The rose poem of youth sung by her marriage is long gone. My sadness is this: I compared these portraits, one with a beaming forehead and the other with a lot of worries: sunrise-and the arrival of night. However, how strange my way seems, because when I look at these faded lips, my heart is smiling, but my tears begin at the smiling girl. -Emily Nelligan (1879-1941) I deeply love the portrait of this beautiful girl. She is my mother. She drew it many years ago. Her forehead is white and flawless, shining like Venice glass, and there is no shadow in her eyes.
But another portrait shows that her forehead is covered with deep wrinkles as smooth as white marble. The rose love poems of girlhood, which were sung at her wedding, are gone now. At this time, my heart is sad: comparing these two portraits, one looks cheerful and the other looks preoccupied: one looks like the rising sun-the other looks like the gloomy night approaching.
However, my reaction was unusual, because when I looked at her tarnished lips, my heart was smiling, but when I looked at the smiling girl, my tears began to flow out. -imirie nelligen (1879-1941) vocal music ● 1. One's painting, photography or sketch. Portrait; It took the painter in the park only three minutes to draw the portrait of Jerome. It took the painter in the park only 30 minutes to finish the portrait of Jerome.
2. Marble, a smooth light-colored stone; All the existing ancient Greek and Roman statues near the marble usually used for statues or floors are made of marble. Almost all the ancient Greek and Roman statues preserved to this day are carved from marble. ● 3. Become less bright and lose luster; As the years passed, Mary's favorite dark blue jeans faded. As time went by, Mary's favorite dark blue jeans faded.
More information1.dazzlingadj.bright; Dazzling 2. Venetian glass (famous for its exquisite workmanship, it can be made into candlesticks, wine glasses, lamps, vases and other exquisite articles) 3. Portrait; Portrait (official) 4. Ditches; Ditches; Canal (poem refers to the mark on mother's forehead) 5. Joy-radiant adj (radiant means radiant, radiant, and is used in poetry to refer to joy full of joy; Care-heavy means to be absorbed. Cloudy (in the sky or at night); Deep (used in poetry to describe the coming of night, meaning that night approaches like a blanket).
5. Foreign poetry expresses the golden flower of maternal love. Tagore's Birds
If I become a golden flower, for fun,
Growing on a tall branch, swinging in the air with a smile,
Mom, will you still know me?
If you yell, "Where are you, son?"
I snickered there, but didn't say a word.
I will quietly open my petals and watch you work.
When taking a bath, my wet hair falls over my shoulders and passes through the golden flowers shaded by green trees.
When you go to the small courtyard of prayer, you will smell the flowers.
But I didn't know the smell came from me.
After lunch, I sat at the window and read y m 4 n.
When the shadow of that tree falls on your hair and knees,
I want to cast my little shadow on your page,
Right where you are reading.
But can you guess that this is a small shadow of your child?
When you take the lamp to the cowshed at dusk,
I'm going to suddenly fall to the ground again,
To be your child again, please tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you bad boy?"
"I won't tell you, mom."
That's what you and I were trying to say.
6. The poem "Golden Flower" praised by foreign countries.
Author: Tagore
If I become a golden flower,
Just for fun, growing on the high branches of that tree,
Laughing and trembling in the wind,
Dancing on the new leaves again,
Mom, will you know me?
If you cry and say, "Where are you, son?" "
I secretly laughed there, but I was silent.
I will quietly open my petals and watch you work.
When taking a bath, my wet hair falls over my shoulders and passes through the golden flowers shaded by green trees.
When you go to the small courtyard of prayer, you will smell the fragrance of this flower.
But I didn't know the smell came from me.
7. Foreign poetry expresses the golden flower of maternal love. Tagore's Birds If I were a golden flower, I would happily grow on a tall branch and dance on a new leaf with a smile. Mom, would you know me? If you yell, "Where are you, son?" I snickered there, but didn't say a word.
I will quietly open my petals and watch you work. When you take a shower, put your wet hair on your shoulders, walk through the golden flowers shaded by green trees, and walk to the yard where you pray, you will smell the flowers, but you don't know that the fragrance comes from me.
When you sit at the window and read Ramayana after lunch, the shadow of that tree falls on your hair and knees. I will cast my little shadow on your page, where you are reading. But can you guess that this is a small shadow of your child? When you go to the cowshed with a lamp at dusk, I will suddenly fall to the ground again and become your child again. Please tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you bad boy?" "I won't tell you, mom." That's what you and I were trying to say.