John keats J.
1
The season of mist and ripe fruit,
A close confidant of the mature sun,
Plot with him how to load and bless.
The vines around the thatched roof are full of fruits;
Bend the mossy cottage with apples,
Let all fruits fully mature;
Bulge the gourd and hazelnut shell.
There is a sweet kernel; In order to increase budding,
More importantly, later, the flowers of bees,
Until they think the warm days will never stop,
Because summer flooded their cold cells.
2
Who doesn't often see you in your shop?
Sometimes, no matter who goes abroad to look for it, they will find it.
You sit casually on the floor of the granary,
Your hair is blown by the wind;
Or sleep soundly in the half-harvested furrow,
Pour it with poppy smoke, and your hook
Let go of the next flower and all the tangled flowers.
Sometimes you are like a gleaner.
Stabilize your loaded head across the stream;
Or use cyder-press, watch patiently,
You watched the last seepage hour after hour.
three
Where are the songs of spring? Well, where are they?
Don't think about them, you also have your music,
When the striped clouds are in full bloom in the dying days,
Touch the stubble plain with rose color;
Then in the noisy choir, the little gnats mourned.
In the river, rising high
Or sink like a breeze, live or die;
The loud bleating of adult lambs came from the hilly area;
Hedge crickets sing; Now use a high-pitched soft voice
The red chest whistle forms a garden;
The gathered swallows are whispering in the sky.
Akimatsu
1
There is fog and ripe fruit in autumn.
You become friends with the mature sun;
You conspired to use countless beads,
The eaves of Mao are covered with vines;
Let the old tree in front of the house bear apples,
Let the ripe taste penetrate into the heart of the fruit,
Make the gourd swell the hazelnut shell,
Good into the sweet core; For bees.
Flowers that bloom late again and again,
Let them think that the days will be warm forever,
Because summer fills their sticky nests very early.
2
Who doesn't often see you with the barn?
You can also find it in the fields.
Mi sometimes sits on the threshing floor at will,
Let the hair flutter gently with the wind of winnowing the grain;
Sometimes, addicted to the fragrance of poppies,
You're lying on a half-harvested ridge,
Let the sickle rest next to the flowers in the flower bed next door;
Or, like a gleaner across a stream,
You hold your head high, carry a grain bag, and cast your reflection.
Or sit under a fruit juicer for hours,
You patiently looked at the slowly dripping wine slurry.
three
Ah. Where is Haruka? But don't.
Think about it, you have your music-
When the wavy clouds reflect a dying day,
Wipe the scattered fields with cinnabar,
At this time, there are a group of small flying insects under the willows by the river.
They all started to lament, and suddenly they flew very high.
Suddenly falling, ups and downs with the breeze;
In the garden, crickets under the fence are singing.
Robins with red breasts will whistle in groups;
And the sheep bleated loudly and silently in the mountain circle;
Swallows in Cong Fei are whispering in the sky.