The sound of autumn leaves, the coolness of a piece of paper, the night is so clear that it is so quiet that it is almost desolate.
A pot of tea, a dream of Jiangnan, a shallow drink of moonlight, and the past has passed over the years.
Autumn should be an alluring warmth. In the mottled colors of sycamore, ginkgo, camphor, and red maple, a wall of broken shadows is swaying, and the sunlight is tilted.
I always think that autumn should be like the yellowed poems among old papers, with the moonlight of the old days, a slight coolness, a touch of thoughts, and a slight melancholy.
I always think that autumn should be like a gentle letter in a field of wild geese, like sparse rain falling on the sycamore tree, the sound is heard; like an old friend across the autumn water, missing each other.
Go watch the sunset, sing in the wind, be drunk for a month, and fill your eyebrows with joy.
Go and listen to the rain hitting the remaining lotuses, with a sound of dripping, a little sad, and a pillow of fresh coolness falling in the clear night.
Go see the white dew once, hang a drop of it, cool down for a night, and light up the fire of poetry in your heart.
To pick up an autumn leaf, one sentence is red, one sentence is green, and the obsession of the season is written in its veins.
There are dreams in Qingqiu, and the rain turns into poems
Waiting, a cool wind, a volume of plain autumn words, a sparse stroke of the past, falling between the eyebrows, a pool of light The moon shadow brews time. Who buried my sorrow quietly like fallen leaves? Who collects my stories slowly like autumn water?
There are dreams in Qingqiu, and the falling rain turns into poems, in silent places. Autumn is the corner of the street, with familiar songs floating around, you are in the sea of ??people , but can't go back to the past, let the rain wet the time.
The autumn rain pours into the cup, and the wind and smoke are purified after a drink; the moonlight pours into the painting, and the pen is filled with autumn water on the paper. Who meets each other happily in an autumn field; who misses each other in a rain soaked through; who sees each other off in a formation of wild geese, and who misses each other in the white dew waiting to be married.
The dusty moon dyes autumn, the years are cold, and poems are written on red leaves. The past is always blown away by the wind. Whoever writes west wind songs is like Cangjie's words, and who is worried about Nanpu, like Song Dynasty jade poems.
The geese are silent, leaning against the window alone, looking at each other through the lantern, looking at the invisible autumn water, looking at the endless horizon, watching the flowers blooming and falling, leaving people's tears and the white moonlight, another sentimental scene of remembrance.
Autumn rain is the messenger of seasons. It gradually dyes the rivers and mountains, blows the moonlight into dewdrops, brings lovesickness to the sad heart, and dyes the temples with white snow.
Whoever thinks of the west wind will stand up for the setting sun
I have been dreaming of returning from a distant book for a long time, only an empty bed is the enemy of autumn. There are moss and mangroves under the steps, and the moon is sad in the rain.
I really want to write you a letter, a very long letter, a very slow letter, with the autumn sun setting the pen tip, seeing the words is like meeting each other, what a tender miss, It seems that in the blink of an eye, those crazy thoughts have blossomed.
I really want to receive a letter, which comes from the depths of the years, carrying the shadows of flowers left by the sentimental early months, and carrying the fragrance of lotus wind and water. Every word, a mixture of sorrow and joy, the flower note on the case, The ink marks on the paper are signed alone, and the reading is very affectionate.
Who cares about the west wind, who stands up for the setting sun, a piece of clear autumn, the scenery is charming, and the traveler is charming; the journey of a lifetime, when it gets thinner, it becomes the breeze, when it gets thinner, it becomes the autumn water, and when it gets colder, it becomes the winter snow.
How many times have I leaned against the railing and looked alone at the window with the shadows of leaves, and I have seen the fantasy of blooming flowers, the sadness of falling leaves, the sorrow of separation, and the regret of separation accompanied by the coolness of autumn.
Who walked by with an umbrella, the long gate in the deep alley, the ancient town of Shiqiao, the wait of Jiangnan, the hazy autumn rain on the window.
Who, covered with mist and rain, puts his thoughts on the bluestone alley under your window, just to wait for the moonlight to add clothes to you.
The moonlight falls on the old window, forming a poem, branching off the green mountains, and reading the sentences on the green water, just for the sake of knowing each other at the top and meeting you at the bottom; it falls on the shoulder, falls into the crook of the eyebrow, and sees you. Qiushui's eyes, slightly restrained, are as beautiful as the past.
I wish I could have a cup of tea and slowly cook it for a long time
There is always a ray of autumn wind that brings a coolness, there is always an autumn rain, and I feel lovesickness at night, and there is always a curtain of moon shining on it. My hometown is also like my hometown.
Last day, the green lotus leaves were just rolling, and the autumn wind was easy to come. The time was flowing, one station was spring flowers, another station was summer green, another station was autumn moon, and another station was white snow.
Only that pot of tea has traveled through the Tang Dynasty and Song Dynasty, seen the world's scenery, and been boiled for countless spring and autumn periods. It seems to have been sealed by the years, and it is still green and clear, with an elegant and mellow fragrance.
With the thoughts of falling grass and trees, the sentiment of traveling thousands of miles, the high distance of boiling a pot of clear water and clouds, the lightness of the bright moon and the clear breeze, in every wisp of old color, there is a cool but joyful feeling. time.
For the rest of my life, I would like to have a cup of tea, sit opposite the time, sit under the sunset, sit on the thin autumn water, and sit indifferent to the past.