Poems about spring are relatively short.

1. The groves in the city turned green. The humble life of ants and flying insects in my small forest came under the soil with spring. I heard the sound of earthworms crawling and knocked down the closed door of the soil with their soft heads. On the grass in the grove, I saw a group of goats waving their long beards and bleating a black goat, which shocked my youth and soul. Walking towards me leisurely, there are happy tears on my face. Pushing open the door of spring, I hear birds chirping in the city. A few spring birds are afraid to enter the city, but they are cheering outside the school gate. They are as simple as farmers in rural areas, which gives me a sense of closeness. They are my friends, and they are like relatives I met by chance. They are looking for unknown bugs and making friendly sounds to their peers outside school. I fell in love with the sound of birds. In the contention of birds, I pushed open the door of spring. This spring, this spring, my heart is in a mess. Sometimes I think of some tombstones, and sometimes I think of my childhood. This spring, my heart is in a mess. My spring poems were written in spring. My poems are leaves and crowns in spring. What else can I do this spring? Who else can I embrace spring and time with? The rain passed through my chest. A voice dripped from a high place, like a Rapunzel shawl, and a black waterfall held time tightly on me. Therefore, being a dizzy elf in the endless rain curtain can't tell who is the real irresistible desire. Raindrops are flying in the air and slowly floating in the air. The accumulated strength seeped into my broad chest quietly from the simple clouds, so the waves in my chest stirred ripples and beat on the emotional shore reef. Waves of breath and drops of rain nourish each other, and drops of rain go deep into my heart without cover. Mix with my thoughts, then wash everything through the narrow space in my heart, and a ray of sunshine flies into my sunny sky through time. On February 23, 2004, Looking at a Snow in Spring boarded the train bound for spring with the sharp sword of the season, ruthlessly scraped off the restless buds, let the little hand that had been chapped for a winter stretch out, stepped on a snow in spring and held high the banner of hunting and chasing. The dialogue between spring and snow is precious. Snowflakes flow freely in six directions, conveying wet information. In fact, spring has nothing to do with a snow, but a sudden cold in late spring. Grab everyone's love. Looking up, the contact between heaven and earth is intense and pure along the slope of the season. The last snow and trees outside the window are waiting for February 3, 2004. Looking at the horizon, the branches droop and sigh, and the fog drips into the yearning for spring. A bud quietly arching the frozen soil knocks on the door of the earth. Free-roaming sparrows disappear into the cracked trunk of ice and enjoy love. Light kites in the suburbs, sailing all the way to the territory of spring. The road is still muddy. Occasionally, pedestrians turn up their collars to keep the cold out, and the sun shines into the spring gate. On February 5, 2004, I didn't make an appointment with a kite and flew my son to a mountain top in the suburbs. I am so excited that a floating leaf is flying in the distance. There you are. I lay next to my wife and kissed Achnatherum splendens all afternoon. I really want to take out my son's homework in his schoolbag and help him sweep it. The lawn between buildings is covered with wild flowers, and then "Cleisthenes" cries like a shepherd boy. Cattle raise their hooves and spray beads to wake up the ears of spring from the river. Next to it are the seedlings that grow wildly in spring and the dense leaves on the ridge of the field. Imagine, not long ago, this old buffalo was muttering, pushing the pace of the season. An empty philosopher is holding hands and making various gestures, turning the warm colors in the earth through the cold eyes of the season. Cool classical figures lean heavily to the mud waves, and plowshares and old farmers are urged to carry the last feather on their backs. After experiencing abundant vitality, they hid under the wings of late spring dusk, and a feather serenaded safely and gracefully in the wind, gently licking the sails sailing in the sea of four seasons. Fall out of favor again under the eaves of love, turn your back on the once romantic * * * quietly, and a drop of clear tears wander in the space of steaming clouds in spring. On the night of January, the fading light is bathed in grinding clouds. The fiery journey of the sea and the sky to control the beautiful feathers is beyond the reach of the smoke lock. Then, with a silent promise, he raised his pious prayer flags and walked away. Who hunted the feathers of spring but couldn't find the soaring sky to collect the feathers of emotional branches? 2004-03-08 "Waiting for the sun in a hurry" I think in a spring afternoon, maybe many things will be boring to look at the distant sky from the windowsill. The crowded downstairs is crowded with pedestrians in a hurry. They all look serious and witness the actions of others. On the one hand, the sky is clear with lyrical pigeon feathers and beautiful pigeon whistle. They slide unscrupulously between kites and breezes, casting vigorous shadow movements and choosing only irregular strokes. The trace of the rope sets up pigeons, bridges the distance with open feathers, waits for a beam of sunshine, preferably a long-lost sunshine, to rush over and then hug heartily. On February 2, 2004, the car walked wearily from the noise to the target. The boiling vilen was silent. In the spring when rape blossoms are in full bloom, a group of bees, as masters, come to the depths of the season and skillfully lie in the gaps between stamens and petals. Watching the wind dance, stretching, breathing out the depression in the chest, stopping the comfort and ease on the road outside the window, a red apricot came out of the wall playfully along the pulled curtain, and the thick aroma mixed with the brewed alcohol made a car full of people pass out. Author: Miss Ai Chun Qing is here-who knows how she came? I know! I know! She comes from the south and came here a few days ago. The swallow told me the good news. Have any of you seen her? What does she look like? I know! I know! She is a little girl, prettier than me, with watery eyes and long braids! She was barefoot and her trouser legs were arm in arm on her knees. On her arm, hung a striking wicker basket. She crossed the river and walked slowly on the beach. She lowered her head and sang softly. It sounds as if the river is flowing ... anyone will be happy to see her. Anyone who hears her sing will be happy. In her big willow basket, there are many things-safflower, green grass and golden seeds. She hung flowers on the tree and spread the grass on the ground. Scatter the seeds in the ground and let them grow green seedlings. She walked on the ridge, the cows looked up, the calves jumped and the big lambs bleated ... When she came to the village, every household was very happy, and all orchards opened their doors to welcome her. Those pools are polished; When Miss Chun walked by, she looked in the mirror. All kinds of birds sing all kinds of songs, and each bird says, "My heart is really happy!" " "All kinds of birds are singing all kinds of songs, and each bird says," My heart is really happy! ""Only those ducks can't fly or sing. They just stood, flapping their wings and laughing ... They said, "Miss Chun, we have been waiting for you for a long time! I hope you came! We can't sing, hahaha ... "First of all, the small forest in the city turned green. The humble life of ants and flying insects in my small forest came under the soil with spring. I heard the sound of earthworms crawling and knocked down the closed door of the soil with their soft heads. On the grass in the grove, I saw a group of goats waving their long beards and bleating a black goat, which shocked my youth and soul. Walking towards me leisurely, there are happy tears on my face. Pushing open the door of spring, I hear birds chirping in the city. A few spring birds are afraid to enter the city, but they are cheering outside the school gate. They are as simple as farmers in rural areas, which gives me a sense of closeness. They are my friends, and they are like relatives I met by chance. They are looking for unknown bugs and making friendly sounds to their peers outside school. I fell in love with the sound of birds. In the contention of birds, I pushed open the door of spring. This spring, this spring, my heart is in a mess. Sometimes I think of some tombstones, and sometimes I think of my childhood. This spring, my heart is in a mess. My spring poems were written in spring. My poems are leaves and crowns in spring. What else can I do this spring? Who else can I embrace spring and time with? The rain passed through my chest. A voice dripped from a high place, like a Rapunzel shawl, and a black waterfall held time tightly on me. Therefore, being a dizzy elf in the endless rain curtain can't tell who is the real irresistible desire. Raindrops are flying in the air and slowly floating in the air. The accumulated strength seeped into my broad chest quietly from the simple clouds, so the waves in my chest stirred ripples and beat on the emotional shore reef. Waves of breath and drops of rain nourish each other, and drops of rain go deep into my heart without cover. Mix with my thoughts, then wash everything through the narrow space in my heart, and a ray of sunshine flies into my sunny sky through time. On February 23, 2004, Looking at a Snow in Spring boarded the train bound for spring with the sharp sword of the season, ruthlessly scraped off the restless buds, let the little hand that had been chapped for a winter stretch out, stepped on a snow in spring and held high the banner of hunting and chasing. The dialogue between spring and snow is precious. Snowflakes flow freely in six directions, conveying wet information. In fact, spring has nothing to do with a snow, but a sudden cold in late spring. Grab everyone's love. Looking up, the contact between heaven and earth is intense and pure along the slope of the season. The last snow and trees outside the window are waiting for February 3, 2004. Looking at the horizon, the branches droop and sigh, and the fog drips into the yearning for spring. A bud quietly arching the frozen soil knocks on the door of the earth. Free-roaming sparrows disappear into the cracked trunk of ice and enjoy love. Light kites in the suburbs, sailing all the way to the territory of spring. The road is still muddy. Occasionally, pedestrians turn up their collars to keep the cold out, and the sun shines into the spring gate. On February 5, 2004, I didn't make an appointment with a kite and flew my son to a mountain top in the suburbs. I am so excited that a floating leaf is flying in the distance. There you are. I lay next to my wife and kissed Achnatherum splendens all afternoon. I really want to take out my son's homework in his schoolbag and help him sweep it. The lawn between buildings is covered with wild flowers, and then "Cleisthenes" cries like a shepherd boy. Cattle raise their hooves and spray beads to wake up the ears of spring from the river. Next to it are the seedlings that grow wildly in spring and the dense leaves on the ridge of the field. Imagine, not long ago, this old buffalo muttered, pushing the pace of the season. An empty philosopher is holding hands and making various gestures, turning the warm colors in the earth through the cold eyes of the season. Cool classical figures lean heavily to the mud waves, and plowshares and old farmers are urged to carry the last feather on their backs. After experiencing abundant vitality, they hid under the wings of late spring dusk, and a feather serenaded safely and gracefully in the wind, gently licking the sails sailing in the sea of four seasons. Fall out of favor again under the eaves of love, turn your back on the once romantic * * * quietly, and a drop of clear tears wander in the space of steaming clouds in spring. On the night of January, the fading light is bathed in grinding clouds. The fiery journey of the sea and the sky to control the beautiful feathers is beyond the reach of the smoke lock. Then, with a silent promise, he raised his pious prayer flags and walked away. Who hunted the feathers of spring but couldn't find the soaring sky to collect the feathers of emotional branches? 2004-03-08 "Waiting for the sun in a hurry" I think in a spring afternoon, maybe many things will be boring to look at the distant sky from the windowsill. The crowded downstairs is crowded with pedestrians in a hurry. They all look serious and witness the actions of others. On the one hand, the sky is clear with lyrical pigeon feathers and beautiful pigeon whistle. They slide unscrupulously between kites and breezes, casting vigorous shadow movements and choosing only irregular strokes. The trace of the rope sets up pigeons, bridges the distance with open feathers, waits for a beam of sunshine, preferably a long-lost sunshine, to rush over and then hug heartily. On February 2, 2004, the car walked wearily from the noise to the target. The boiling vilen was silent. In the spring when rape blossoms are in full bloom, a group of bees, as masters, come to the depths of the season and skillfully lie in the gaps between stamens and petals. Watching the wind dance, stretching, breathing out the depression in my chest, parking on the road outside the window is comfortable and comfortable, and an apricot comes out of the wall playfully along the curtain that is pulled down, and the thick aroma is mixed with brewed alcohol, which shocked a car full of people [modern poetry]. Forget the spring, the empty courtyard in the spring night sky, singing softly in the dream, some people's footsteps have gone away, and some people have returned to their hometown. If there is moonlight on my pillow, I won't sleep tonight, because I still have her beautiful image dancing in my heart. Whenever I look up at the blue sky and white clouds, my black eyes drift to the past. Every time I hug the night star, I want to shed a few tears in the lamp, but I am afraid that the tears will reflect yesterday's heartbreak and leave the warm and soft bed, but I don't know who spring is waiting for. You think under the bright window. Spring love is thinking about autumn frost and all the flowers. I once cried and laughed secretly on the way to wake up from my dream, and slowly forgot my heart into the candlelight forgotten by spring or lonely hope. First, the small forest in the city turned green, and the humble life of ants and flying insects in my small forest came under the soil with spring. I heard the sound of earthworms crawling and knocked down the closed door of the soil with their soft heads. On the grass in the grove, I saw a group of goats waving their long beards and bleating, which shocked my youth and soul. A black goat came to me with tears of happiness on her face. Second, push open the door of spring and hear birds singing in the city. A few primrose birds were afraid to go into town, but they cheered outside the school. They are as simple as farmers in rural areas, which makes me feel close. They are my friends. It seems that they are relatives I met by chance. They are looking for unknown bugs and making friendly sounds to their peers outside school. I fell in love with the sound of birds. In the contention of birds, I pushed open the door of spring. This spring, this spring, my heart is in a mess. Sometimes I think of some tombstones, and sometimes I think of my childhood. This spring, my heart is in a mess. My spring poems were written in spring. My poems are leaves and crowns in spring. What else can I do this spring? Who else can I embrace spring and time with? The rain passed through my chest. A voice dripped from a high place, like a Rapunzel shawl, and a black waterfall held time tightly on me. Therefore, being a dizzy elf in the endless rain curtain can't tell who is the real irresistible desire. Raindrops are flying in the air and slowly floating in the air. The accumulated strength seeped into my broad chest quietly from the simple clouds, so the waves in my chest stirred ripples and beat on the emotional shore reef. Waves of breath and drops of rain nourish each other, and drops of rain go deep into my heart without cover. Mix with my thoughts, then wash everything through the narrow space in my heart, and a ray of sunshine flies into my sunny sky through time. On February 23, 2004, Looking at a Snow in Spring boarded the train bound for spring with the sharp sword of the season, ruthlessly scraped off the restless buds, let the little hand that had been chapped for a winter stretch out, stepped on a snow in spring and held high the banner of hunting and chasing. The dialogue between spring and snow is precious. Snowflakes flow freely in six directions, conveying wet information. In fact, spring has nothing to do with a snow, but a sudden cold in late spring. Grab everyone's love. Looking up, the contact between heaven and earth is intense and pure along the slope of the season. The last snow and trees outside the window are waiting for February 3, 2004. Looking at the horizon, the branches droop and sigh, and the fog drips into the yearning for spring. A bud quietly arching the frozen soil knocks on the door of the earth. Free-roaming sparrows disappear into the cracked trunk of ice and enjoy love. Light kites in the suburbs, sailing all the way to the territory of spring. The road is still muddy. Occasionally, pedestrians turn up their collars to keep the cold out, and the sun shines into the spring gate. On February 5, 2004, I didn't make an appointment with a kite and flew my son to a mountain top in the suburbs. I am so excited that a floating leaf is flying in the distance. There you are. I lay next to my wife and kissed Achnatherum splendens all afternoon. I really want to take out my son's homework in his schoolbag and help him sweep it. The lawn between buildings is covered with wild flowers, and then "Cleisthenes" cries like a shepherd boy. Cattle raise their hooves and spray beads to wake up the ears of spring from the river. Next to it are the seedlings that grow wildly in spring and the dense leaves on the ridge of the field. Imagine, not long ago, this old buffalo muttered, pushing the pace of the season. An empty philosopher is holding hands and making various gestures, turning the warm colors in the earth through the cold eyes of the season. Cool classical figures lean heavily to the mud waves, and plowshares and old farmers are urged to carry the last feather on their backs. After experiencing abundant vitality, they hid under the wings of late spring dusk, and a feather serenaded safely and gracefully in the wind, gently licking the sails sailing in the sea of four seasons. Fall out of favor again under the eaves of love, turn your back on the once romantic * * * quietly, and a drop of clear tears wander in the space of steaming clouds in spring. On the night of January, the fading light is bathed in grinding clouds. The fiery journey of the sea and the sky to control the beautiful feathers is beyond the reach of the smoke lock. Then, with a silent promise, he raised his pious prayer flags and walked away. Who hunted the feathers of spring but couldn't find the soaring sky to collect the feathers of emotional branches? 2004-03-08 "Waiting for the sun in a hurry" I think in a spring afternoon, maybe many things will be boring to look at the distant sky from the windowsill. The crowded downstairs is crowded with pedestrians in a hurry. They all look serious and witness the actions of others. On the one hand, the sky is clear with lyrical pigeon feathers and beautiful pigeon whistle. They slide unscrupulously between kites and breezes, casting vigorous shadow movements and choosing only irregular strokes. The trace of the rope sets up pigeons, bridges the distance with open feathers, waits for a beam of sunshine, preferably a long-lost sunshine, to rush over and then hug heartily. On February 2, 2004, the car walked wearily from the noise to the target. The boiling vilen was silent. In the spring when rape blossoms are in full bloom, a group of bees, as masters, come to the depths of the season and skillfully lie in the gaps between stamens and petals. Watch the wind dance, stretch, breathe out the depression in your chest, and park comfortably and comfortably. On the way out of the window, a red apricot playfully walked through the wall along the curtain that was pulled down, and the thick aroma mixed with the brewed alcohol smoked a car full of people.