A poem saved from danger

1. Poetry about redemption

A poem about redemption 1. A poem about saving yourself by yourself.

In a people's country, there is also a driving hub, and that is virtue. -Montesquieu

Man cannot live like an animal, but should pursue knowledge and virtue. -Dante

Don't do it with little evil, and don't do it with little good. Only virtue and virtue can serve others. -Liu Bei

Don't disrespect the position, but don't disrespect the virtue; Not ashamed of Lu's disagreement, but ashamed of his lack of wisdom. -Zhang Heng

Soil can hold up the city wall, and virtue is thick soil. -Li Bai

Do a good deed and feel calm inside; If you do a bad thing, you will feel ashamed. -Han Guangshen

Immersed in the mud and not eroded by the sugar-coated shells of the bourgeoisie is the most valuable revolutionary quality. Zhou Enlai

The saddest thing for a person is the death of conscience. —— Guo Moruo

Shyness is a feeling of fear or humiliation, which can prevent people from doing some despicable acts. -Spinoza

We should be enthusiastic about doing things according to morality, not talking about morality. -democritus

Emotion has great appeal, so it is an important prerequisite for all moral behaviors. -Kailov

2. Rescue poems

Holding the torch at the same time, we also hold up the call of love, thinking in a point, line and group way, surrounded by local accent, getting lost, disaster danger, emergency rescue. This is a spontaneous team name. The team leader is the humanitarian team leader. Dress warmly and refuse to be indifferent. Public welfare is in action. Blue sky rescue is also to rescue the blue sky. The persimmon is ripe. It transcends the ignorance of broken flowers and the shyness of appreciation. It lit a string of heart lamps, mature nectar, full of heavy self-sacrifice and affection. Looking back, fortunately, the figure is floating. Fu Ba stood on tiptoe and sweetly read the poem "Pointing to Heaven as Father", which touched the tip of the tongue. Twilight rolled and twisted, and the green on the sunny slope of the ridge could no longer bear the lift of the prime of life, so it turned into a brown stain of coughing up blood. It carries a heavy journey like a mountain, and the muddy white flowers blown by the wind crawl and bend straight to say goodbye. All the way to the west, it rained, and a handful of loess was always sent from the path soaked by the pear garden, which dyed the radian of the western heaven yellow. "Lu" means that heaven is the father. It is deeply rooted in the soil, and the desire to stand upright hollows out the heart. It's green, yellow and withered. The once melodious reed flute trembled, with a ragged smile, whispering all kinds of love winds, drizzling and pale harvest. Cold dew is dignified on the water side, regardless of the pain, and finally, with bones as firewood, it burns into a white sheep. "My white hair is full of news"-dedicated to the hard-working teachers, not only in spring, I cultivated and sowed on the holy soil, watching you dry up, watering, watching you swell, loosening the soil, righting the tilt coming from all directions, and finally, lovely, when you pulled the budding news from our shoulders, weeding, spraying, fertilizing, and cultivating and condensing. I will grow sturdily and see your ears full, and see my fruit press down year after year until the dew turns into frost. Bones in hometown: a good wooden bow bends down to accommodate the head of the grandmother's grandmother who doesn't scratch the back of the grandmother in the village. Vicissitudes trample on rivers and mountains. Your trembling waist, Mount Tai, can't fall down the barren mountain that has been eaten by hunger. The footsteps coming from you are stretched out on an empty stomach to help mother's thin silhouette. Now my back is imitated as a bridge, my hands and feet hold the root of the stone tightly, and my waist bridge stands firmly. I stand on a business card of prose poetry in my hometown of Jizhou. I have a picture book with a brand-new cover at the beginning, which is the age of parents' youthful appearance and two-inch black and white photos of the old house. My father, with his hair braided, left me side by side, and my brother wore a children's hat with a military emblem. My parents hold the family photos in our old house and photo album. The sweat and alkali crystals on my parents' coarse shirts are not enough to feed. Four pieces of goose yellow with small mouths cracked, and the old house leaked air and rain. The photo album with broken lines has been mended. After the four birds circled the beam, their arms spread high and stopped, and their parents squinted at the old house with white hair wrinkles. The vicissitudes of life in the pupil color photos are so striking. The father is old, and the child is old with crutches, and the photo album is mottled. My parents' smiles in my old house are cloudy but clear. My old house has gone to heaven with my parents, extending the love of three rooms and one living room. Now the heavy photo album is full of heavy feelings. I love you so much, my God, my rich soil, my parents, my old house are full of love, and the world is full of love.

3. Poems about saving yourself by yourself