The muddy Tsing Yi River flows silently forward, and a group of butterflies shuttle through the grass and dense forest on the roadside. In the distance, the green hills are like wearing, and the banyan trees on both sides of the nearby mountain road cover the sky. There is a Xia Chan lying on a banyan tree, making a lot of noise in Ya Ya. When I was a child, I tied it to a long bamboo pole with a group of friends. Then tie the glued Xia Chan with a rope, and the cicada will trot and make a moving cry. Now this cicada is in the big tree next to it, but I dare not start catching it. All kinds of insects are flying around the mountain road, and it seems that a grand concert is being held in the deserted forest. All kinds of birds and insects scrambled to appear on the stage to show their euphemistic voices. I am the only audience and fan:
There is no light in the lonely mountain around here.
But where did the voices I heard come from?
Sunset can travel through the depths of the forest.
It seems to choose to wander on the moss.
I sat in the Woods by the Qingyi River, listening to cicadas chirping in the trees. The forest is quiet, only orioles, turtledoves, birds and cicadas that can't be named, and the hum of bees picking flowers and honey. Occasionally, tourists pass by in twos and threes. Xia Chan shouted happily, which reminded me of my childhood and everything I did in summer when I was a child. The mountain road is deeply hidden among the towering old trees, and there is no trace of pedestrians. It seems that someone is talking, and the echo ripples from nowhere. I can't hear the sobs of the muddy Qingyi River. Sunlight penetrated into the depths of the dense forest, and the residual clouds in the air slowly drifted to the top of the mountain. The farther the tree is, the more enthusiastic the cicada is.
It suddenly occurred to me that Li Shangyin had a poem about cicadas, which made them extremely bleak:
The pure heart is hungry because of this/you sang in vain all night/oh, this last broken breath/in the green and indifferent forest! /Yes, I disappeared like a driftwood/I made my garden full of weeds/I thank you for your advice/I live a pure life like you.
This poem is a metaphor for the author's own nobleness by cicada singing. It is said that cicada meal is elegant and elegant, but it is difficult to eat when you are hoarse. In the second half of the song, I directly expressed my feelings. I am a thin official in a foreign country, and my branches are falling. My hometown was deserted, so I went to Hu Bugui. Therefore, the smell of cicadas is a warning to themselves, and they are in the same boat. The author refers to the cicada's hunger, its futility, its desire to break, its ruthlessness and its deep hatred. When I read this poem, I didn't agree with Li Shangyin's description. I always thought that cicada's life was short but extremely hot. The whole summer is a world of cicadas. No matter whether you walk in the city or the countryside, Xia Chan always sings enthusiastically, just like lovers in love. Every morning, as long as you stand by the roadside, you can hear Xia Chan making noise in the surrounding trees. The cry is full of nostalgia and wild interest, which makes a hot summer more enthusiastic.
I didn't mean to read 300 Tang Poems, so I lay alone on a moss-covered stone olive, quietly listening to Xia Chan's screaming. Screams make me intoxicated and passionate. Inside and outside the mountain road, cypress trees are lush and green grass sets off the abandoned stone steps. Only the beautiful mountain road in summer is empty, with dense trees and orioles in the forest.
I have no intention of reading Wang Wei's poems any more. The cicadas in the Woods are high and low, far and near. I'm lying on the Shi Lan to rest, afraid of accidentally falling into the muddy Qingyi River, and thinking about the artistic achievements of Wang Wei's poems I just read. Whether it is the magnificent scene of "lonely smoke in the desert, the long river setting the yen" or the exquisite natural state of "moonlight in the pine forest, crystal stone in the stream", he can grasp the colors, sounds and dynamics of nature, or sketch or depict it with ease, with unique artistic conception, and the colors of the picture are often in contrast.
Wang Wei is not only good at painting and calligraphy, but also has unique achievements in music and calligraphy. Wang Wei's achievements in poetry are various. No matter frontier poems, rhymes and quatrains, there are excellent works spread to the population. Most of his frontier poems can express the heroic spirit of soldiers who defend their territory to the death with impassioned emotions. His landscape poems are not obscure and varied, with different styles and emotional appeal. After the rain, Wang Wei can leave the mountain empty/stand in late autumn/moonlight in pine forest/crystal stone in brook/return of laundry girl in bamboo room/lotus leaves in front of fishing boat/what if spring is over/Wang Sun. Leaning alone in the dense bamboo/I played the pipa and hummed/It was too light for anyone to listen to/Except my companion, Wang Wei's "The Bright Moon in the Bamboo Pass" described all kinds of natural scenery and achieved great success. No wonder Su Dongpo called his poems "painting in poetry and poetry in painting". Wang Wei's pastoral poems are not only high-level, but also rich in colors. There are fresh and beautiful scenes, quiet and beautiful artistic conception, themes full of life breath and vivid and natural descriptions. There are more than 400 poems preserved by Wang Wei. His pastoral poems mainly describe his leisure life and landscape scenery in seclusion in the south.
Tang Poetry, Song Ci and Yuan Qu are three beautiful peaks that modern people can't surmount in the history of China literature. Reading in your spare time can cultivate your temperament. Yuan Mei, a poet in the Qing Dynasty, said: "Reading is like eating. Those who are good at eating grow up, and those who are not good at eating have phlegm tumors." .
A philosopher said, "Reading history makes people wise, reading poetry makes people witty, mathematics makes people think deeply, and philosophy makes people profound". In order to avoid the noise of the city, I lay on a cool stone olive covered with weeds and moss, with my arms resting on my head, and the mountain wind brushed my cheeks from all directions. I tasted the fragrance of My Sweetie's nature around me.
At night, my companions came down from the mountain sweating, but I enjoyed loneliness and loneliness alone, enjoying the quiet noon and dusk.