Modern poetry in praise of summer.

In the afterglow of the star burial, the light blue night overflowed into the window, and the small palace lanterns of fireflies were too full in midsummer. I dreamed of the Tang Palace, the light chased by fans, another summer night, the funeral of a star, the extension and extinction of a flash, your sigh, my review and the silent poetry of a moment. One of my childhood, the red dragonfly looked for lost wings, and the grass could not bear loneliness. Children's eyes in July are full of stars and wet. My father's slap on my trouser leg solidified a childhood. Secondly, amorous feelings no longer smile. Everything is quietly opening colorful skirts, spinning wild winds and spinning young eyes with beards. Summer is the season for women. Third, at dusk, the newly-built tomb top burns in the Huang Cancan, setting off a little black. A crow is heavy and full of vitality, and the sun disappears in the west. The smoke from the kitchen deeply enveloped the village, and the screams from the dazzling night changed from green to green. The fields were painted on the dining table, and the way home was peaceful and expressionless under the hoofs of cattle and the footprints of people. Vest underwear choose good weather, simple and fulfilling life. Crows emerged from the darkness and chased the fallen king with the impression of dusk. Four stories: the brilliance of roses sharpens eyes, washes wings of longing, shakes off tears and turns into moths. With strong steps, she left the dependent green radish, and she saved her wish as a mission. Life gripped her palm tightly, squeezing out sweat and blood. She dressed up as a totem to show that love is too far away. Totem swings like a cold day in Yellow Fire, and roses shake into residual red wings and hover in the wind. When beauty is unreal, it will grow beautiful fruit. The quiet green radish gave birth to a small flower in a room. Is singing a sign of coming back? The green radish is singing, singing the lost years and singing the feelings in the years. The fifth is sadness. On rainy nights in summer, the walls are getting paler. Rusty plow tips in the fields were destroyed, and the kiss of the earth was left in the purple soil. Cicada chirps on the high branches, telling the confusion of reincarnation. She talked about how to exchange a hard shell for a pair of beautiful wings. Street lamps are wet and wet on the road. I walk along the street. The smell of the wind in the street is meaningful-in a meaningful alley, the wind turned a corner and walked to the porch last year. In the afternoon, I will have tea with you. Gardenia is in full bloom in the rain. I suddenly realized that there was a smell of gardenia in the wind tonight. June Wen/Guzheng (Nanjing) 1. The footsteps on the boardwalk in the afternoon were light, and I was a little shy. She took an umbrella, and it was raining outside. Come on in. Put down the umbrella, put down the umbrella, put down the only thing in your hand that can distract you. Keep your eyebrows on the tip of your shoes. Like a child, your hand is caught in a handkerchief. A pair of sandals stained with wet mud stopped outside the threshold of dripping rain in June. Your left foot is close to your right foot. I mumbled nervously twice, and when dusk invaded the light, the beautiful image between my eyebrows gradually tilted. Like a thin weeping willow by the river, the shame of smiling like a flower has also been swept away by ripples, and the purple of distant mountains has been washed white by rain. You can vaguely see the crease of gardenia. Even my unkempt hair is languid outside the window after my eyebrows fly gracefully. On a rainy night, I hid behind the windowsill and recalled this afternoon over and over again. The rain kept falling. No one sleeps on this rainy June night. I've been standing at the window with a misty smoke ring, thinking about that woman named Mel. The rain is getting more and more urgent in the sparsely populated streets. Occasionally, strangers hurried home in the bright and transparent night rain. Suddenly, this sleepless rainy night is filled with a restless happiness. In August, there are white ducks swimming in the yellow pond, and the sorghum stalks are just too high. How to put this beating heart? There is a narrow road in the field. Washed by rain last night, the hills left a shadow according to the sun; The sheep followed the shepherd into the village, and a big tree in the shade covered the well like a heart! No one ever said anything in August. Summer has passed, and it is not autumn now. But when I look at the fields and the melons on the earth wall, I still don't understand how life is related to dreams. The summer wind rises early in the morning, I'm waiting for you to stay up late, I'm waiting for you. You are the dream girl I am waiting for. You always land in a dream or wake up in the morning, as if waiting for a lifetime is the moment to meet. Your touch slowly swept over my body, making me infatuated with your coolness, slowly nourishing my skin and intoxicating me. All my passions are eager to turn into ice in your kiss. Without you, it will be difficult for my anxious heart to hear the sound of wild grass growing calmly. Seeing the singing bug hiding in the wall, all the reality about Scorpio was driven away by the voice of evolution, leaving only the moonlight to snicker faintly//wenwen.soso/z/q72962421Song of Summer has arrived in June. The east wind is very hot, and the dry and hot wind blows on the face, and the smell of mature wheat is floating in the wind. This early summer wheat field is like a golden ocean, and layers of golden waves spread far away. The wheat soldiers lined up neatly, dressed in gold, and their morale was high. They expect their parents, hardworking farmers, to review them. Praise them. The longer they wait, the harder it is to stop being happy. When the wind blows through the rustling sound, they are singing and harvesting. There is a busy scene of harvest everywhere. The harvester is roaring over there (blowing away the impurities in the wheat). It's dry here, and it's still on the way to transport ... people's hands are calloused, people's sweat is soaked in clothes, people's faces are too tired to stand up, people's faces are black and bright, but smiles are blooming on people's faces. People's eyes are tired but full of the joy of harvest, conveying the happiness of transplanting rice. Transplanted in the morning, under the oppression of the scorching sun, the coolness has fled in a hurry. The smooth mud in the rice field wanted to fight the scorching sun, but he was thin and sweaty. What about the industrious people who endure the scorching sun? The hot air steamed the seedlings one by one, making the rice fields wear green clothes. People's legs are getting heavier. People have backache. People put their elbows on their knees and step back. People bend over and over again. People bow their heads for too long. People are dizzy and transplant rice. Transplanted people get up earlier than the morning sun, and people come back later than sunset. When the morning star lights up and the frog drum rings, the tired people gather in a noisy stream and flow to a quiet village. The light blue night in the afterglow of star burial overflows into the window. In midsummer, it is too full of fireflies' small palace lanterns. I dream of the Tang Palace, the fan chasing light, another summer night, the funeral of a star, the flickering extension and elimination, and your sigh. My comments and moments of silent poetry. One childhood, the red dragonfly looked for its lost wings. Grass can't stand loneliness. The child's eyes are wide open. A star spilled in July wet the trouser legs. Father's slap solidified a childhood. The second style is no longer a smile. Everything is quietly opening colorful skirts and spinning wild winds. Summer is the third dusk of women's season. The newly-built tomb top burns in the Huang Cancan, setting off a little black. A crow is heavy and full of vitality, and the sun is gone. The smoke from the kitchen deeply enveloped the whole village. The screams of green fields attract the night to the table. The way home, under the feet of cattle and the footprints of people, was peaceful and expressionless. Vest and underwear choose good weather and a simple and fulfilling life. The crow clicked out of the darkness. The king of chasing depravity brought the impression of this dusk to his four stories: the shining eyes of the rose, scrubbing the wings of longing, shaking off tears and dust, flying away like moths-leaving the dependent green radish, taking strong steps to save the wish into a mission, holding the blood and sweat squeezed out of life in the palm of your hand as a totem, and dressing up as the sun, indicating that love is too far away. Totems sway like yellow fire, the sun is cold, and the roses fall in the sunset. Tired wings are hovering in the wind. When beauty is not true, truth bears beautiful fruits. Quiet green radish, a room full of small flowers, gives birth to songs. Is it a way of expressing return? The green radish is singing, singing the lost years and singing the feelings in the years. Fifth, the sad summer rainy evening wall is getting paler and paler. Rusty plow tips in the fields were destroyed, and the kiss of the earth was left in the purple soil. Cicada is chirping on the high branch. With the confusion of reincarnation, I talked about how to exchange a hard shell for a pair of beautiful wings. Six-flavor street lamps were wet on the road and polished the street. I walked alone in the street with an umbrella. The smell of the wind in the street is meaningful-in a meaningful way, the wind turned a corner and went to the porch last year. In the afternoon, I will have tea with you. Gardenia blossoms in the rain. I suddenly felt the fragrance of gardenia in the night wind. Rainy June/Guzheng (Nanjing) 1. Walking on the boardwalk in the afternoon is very light, with a little shy hesitation. She took an umbrella outside. It is raining. May, come in and put down your umbrella. Put the umbrella down. Put down the only thing in your hand that can divert your attention. Keep your eyebrows on the tip of your shoes. Like a child, your hand is caught in a handkerchief. A pair of sandals stained with wet mud stopped outside the threshold of dripping rain in June. Your left foot is close to your right foot. I mumbled nervously twice, and when the twilight invaded the light, the beautiful image between my eyebrows gradually tilted. Like a thin weeping willow by the river, the flower-like shyness was swept away by ripples, and the purple of distant mountains was washed white by rain. You can vaguely see the crease of gardenia, and even my unkempt hair is lazy and listless outside the window after my eyebrows fly away gracefully. On a rainy night, I hid behind the windowsill and recalled this afternoon over and over again. The rain kept falling. No one sleeps on this rainy June night. I've been standing at the window with a misty smoke ring, thinking about that woman named Mel. The rain is getting more and more urgent in the sparsely populated streets. Occasionally, strangers hurried home in the bright and transparent night rain. Suddenly, this sleepless rainy night is filled with a restless happiness. In August, there are white ducks swimming in the yellow pond, and the sorghum stalks are just too high. How to put this beating heart? There is a narrow road in the field. Washed by rain last night, the hills left a shadow according to the sun; The sheep followed the shepherd into the village, and a big tree in the shade covered the well like a heart! No one ever said anything in August. Summer has passed, and it is not autumn now. But when I look at the fields and the melons on the earth wall, I still don't understand how life is related to dreams. The summer wind rises early in the morning, I'm waiting for you to stay up late, I'm waiting for you. You are the dream girl I am waiting for. You always land in a dream or wake up in the morning, as if waiting for a lifetime is the moment to meet. Your touch slowly swept over my body, making me infatuated with your coolness, slowly nourishing my skin and intoxicating me. All my passions are eager to turn into ice in your kiss. Without you, it will be difficult for my anxious heart to hear the sound of wild grass growing calmly. Seeing the singing bug hiding in the wall, all the reality about Scorpio was driven away by the voice of evolution, leaving only the moonlight snickering//wenwen.soso/z/q72962421,2009, 10, 10. . . Your input will be published automatically after you log in successfully. You might be interested. Chairman Mao's Praise for Summer Poetry-Modern Praise for Summer Poetry: I praise Summer: She is the ornament of women, the dream of men, the fun of the rich and the clothes of the poor. I praise summer. She gave us a modern poem praising summer: the sense of summer, which was carefully played by the great nature.