Modern poetry describing the four seasons

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 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 and stretch, breathing out the depression in my chest, stopping the comfort and ease on the road outside the window, an apricot came out of the wall playfully along the curtains pulled down, and the thick aroma mixed with the brewed alcohol made a car full of people dizzy in the rain. Go to hell, understand who Chun is, open a brand-new first page calendar, is it a swallow flying in the rain? Is the cuckoo spreading its wings in the clouds? Or, firecrackers in the farewell sound? Who planted the first hope on the dry Yuan Ye and the hard-working cattle on the yellow land? Is it father's weathered white hair on his forehead? In other words, the wrinkles on the mother's face were refuted by the rings. I only saw a wisp of drizzle and wind flying by, and in this way, your pretty cheeks were blown pink by apricot flowers and red by peach blossoms. In this way, you awakened the dream of sleeping for thousands of years and began to set foot on a new footprint. Before you get dressed in summer, the sun is burning your heart, bearing the entrustment of spring, and you are carefully guarding your first promise. In the afternoon, the dark clouds swam across the clear sky, and then shed a touching tear, washing away the tired dust on the farmers' shoulders. At this time, the newly withered shoots of the branches have given birth to new life. In the chirp of crickets, the figure was slowly elongated, elongated ... People in the crops waved sickles and hoes gnawed by years, and wrote some distant hopes with the poet's pen. Autumn sent away the last ray of hot sunshine in summer. You held the hand of the seed and helped you through two seasons. Just for the golden fruits hanging on the branches everywhere and the simple smiling faces of farmers in the fields. I can clearly see that their eyes are full of tears of joy. Finally, the ears of wheat in the rice field quietly climbed to the top of the former seedlings, bending the leaves; Also bend the reaper's back pressure and bend the shoulder pole. You comforted the sweat of farmers who have traveled for a long time with a bumper harvest. Swallows flying in the south, whose leaves have fallen back to their roots, were sent away from the treetops by you, spitting out a trace of white fog affectionately, covering up the footprints at home, leaving only blue sky and long memories. Whose winter ended the last season of 360 days, the snowflakes falling on the top of the mountain? Is it a cold current blowing on the roof? Or, the thick cotton-padded jacket on the villagers. Who is it, quietly sweeping away the colorful prosperity of the past, or a bug sleeping secretly in the ground? Is it the lazy dying sun? Or, a light tree that has been busy all his life? I can no longer see the apricot flowers dancing in the setting sun, and I can't hear the drizzle that moistens the girl's heart in the small building. Looking back suddenly, you have fulfilled your last promise, grabbed an endless handful of white snow, sprinkled it all over the earth, and continued to lead the songs that are not old. In the biting cold wind, wait, wait … wait for the next spring. Spring (modern poetry) When the green leaves of life climb up my door, they tell me the message of the wanderer's return: butterflies are flying in the garden, and pebbles who wake up from hibernation have long dreamed of the sweet spring ode (modern poetry) at the beginning of the year. The equatorial warm wind can't stand the temptation of the ancient Great Wall, set off a green carpet and quietly spread it to the north. It holds the elephant in spring, sucks the milk of time, and playfully shakes the beard of Siberian cold current with the encouragement of Sunshine's mother-in-law. Melt the ice and snow with a fiery chest, generously give the blush on your face to Taolin, casually throw away the gauze wrapped around your neck and wrap it around countless rivers. Swallows chase it with staggering steps, skim the wet and silent sweat, tear off pieces of white clouds, and help it write charming fairy tales about natural changes and seasonal changes. Rain in the midsummer sky washes away summer poems, and lonely pencils record the stories of that year. Play back the scene like an old movie. You said I'm sorry, I love you, and then I cried. I'm at a loss. My dream will accompany me. The first summer after you left, I tried to record your helplessness with the most beautiful poems. Fingertips are cold and you can't write warm words. Oh, baby, I still don't understand why you chose to leave me. Should we continue to wait for the plane leaves floating by the roadside, or wait for the green moonlight wandering outside the door? One day, that lost heart will bubble again on a summer night and trace it back to greener grass. But I can't play the piano, just a farewell flute; Summer insects are also silent for me. Silence is a bubble tonight! Before you get dressed in summer, the sun is burning your heart, bearing the entrustment of spring, and you are carefully guarding your first promise. In the afternoon, the dark clouds swam across the clear sky, and then shed a touching tear, washing away the tired dust on the farmers' shoulders. At this time, the newly withered shoots of the branches have given birth to new life. In the chirp of crickets, the figure was slowly elongated, elongated ... People in the crops waved sickles and hoes gnawed by years, and wrote some distant hopes with the poet's pen. Summer (Modern Poetry) The rain in midsummer washes the sky and reveals the loneliness everywhere with a pencil. The story of that year is replayed like an old movie. You say I'm sorry, I love you, and then you cry. I am at a loss, and my dream will always be with me. The first summer after you left, I tried to record everything about you and me in the most beautiful poems, but I still don't understand why you chose to leave me, baby. Continue to wait for the plane leaves floating by the roadside and the green moonlight wandering outside the door. One day, the lost heart will come back. In rainy summer, Pan, you said that you wanted to like the summer rain because you were afraid of rainy days. Now my heart aches because I forgot what a little girl would look like when she remembered this sentence. From then on, I know that you are a season away from the rainy season. In the whole long autumn and winter days, there is not even a little * * * between us. The same memory, maybe our love was destined to start from the rainy season, but there was too much rain this summer, and I was never used to playing an umbrella. How can you bear my stormy love? How many times have I stood behind you and stared at the rain in front of your window? In fact, if I could look over your back at that time, I would know how heavy my mood was in the rainstorm and how low the sky was in the rainstorm, or it would have been earlier if I had just moved over your shoulder and kissed you. Seeing your fear and your tears, when I wrote these words, our sky was thousands of miles apart. At this time, I don't know if it is raining in your sky, but does my lover still remember what I said? No matter what happens in this world, as long as you stand behind me, this is what I want to say to you most in my life, but now all this can only be said to the rain. Originally, I thought I would use the hardships of the first 40 years. After 40 years, the bright sunshine was to you, but now it has become meaningless, whether it is cold wind or bright sunshine. Just let me come and stay early. Maybe it won't rain in the next life. Maybe I can meet you without rain in my next life. I have completely exhausted my passion for life, squandered my passion all the way with my personality, and finally exhausted it. Everything is a beautiful beginning and an unreasonable end. Hurt, give up, swear, deceive yourself. If time could go back, I would rather die than say my love every time. Autumn (Modern Poetry) "Autumn Night on the River" Liu Dabai's homing bird, although trapped, still carries the sunset. Flap your wings and set the sunset on the river; Reed with white heads has also been made into beautiful moments. Autumn (modern poem) "Dove" Hu looks pale and the sky is high and the clouds are light. What a late autumn weather! There is a flock of pigeons playing in the air. Look at them in twos and threes, circling back and forth, they are like meaning. -suddenly, they turned over, reflecting the sun, white against the sky, beautiful! (19 18) Autumn Morning says goodbye to you. On a starry night in first frost, I suffered from the pain that holy water is hard to wash. You stepped on my back. Welcome, Shu Dong, you are alive again! At this last moment, I opened my eyes, put my hands around the feet of the sun, watched the leaves tremble and dance, and listened to the sound of the city until I shed tears of joy! (1934) "Shanghai-Hangzhou Train" Xu Zhimo is in a hurry! Come on, come on! A cigarette, a mountain, a few clouds, a piece of water, a bridge, a muffled sound, a pine, a clump of bamboo, a piece of red leaves: colorful fields, colorful autumn scenery, clear as a dream, vague, looming,-urge! Is it a wheel or time? Urging old Qiu, urging old age! (1928) "Whispering" Xu Zhimo's autumn rain is a first-class cold autumn pool, a gaunt autumn willow, a timid autumn branch, a yellow autumn leaf, listening to his kiss, whispering Sanqiu's feelings and love stories, and finally gently brushing him away in autumn eyes. Whispering of autumn rain, Sanqiu's love affair and the plot of love poems also fell into the autumn halo of autumn eyes, whirling and following the autumn flow. (1July 2, 9221day) Autumn Moon: Autumn Moon of Xu Zhimo! Who can afford to scratch and crawl romantically with silver fingertips? I don't believe it, but look at the light waves of the sea, but I can't help crying with the touch of its jade fingers! That's it: boring clouds, the beauty of the autumn moon, cold eyes and cold clothes to attend this happy wedding and funeral. (19221October 6) The reason why Xu Zhimo's Autumn Moon is like the moonlight tonight is because we are all looking up-look at it, a full charm rises from the dark cloud like a mob-and it is particularly bright and round. It spreads out on the road, it floats on the water, and it dips in the bottom like sad weeds; It lingers on the eaves of the ancient city, thousands of city bricks breathe in its glory, it caresses the ruins of the scattered tombs outside the city, and in the continuous sound of birds, it wants to see the old and new ghosts. It also stands like us, its eyes flashing and chewing the biting coolness: the lingering poetry of silver is like the star phosphorus on the water. Listen to the songs of the four fields-eternal and humble harmony, sadness mixed with joy, hatred and love, darkness mixed with heat, in this quiet autumn night and the vastness of autumn fields, the greatness of "melting" unfolded the baby's smile in all tiny depths! (1930 10) Qiu Meng Dai Wangshu's Shepherd's Bell shook off the light leaves. Qiu Meng is faint, which is the gentle and graceful love of shepherdess. So my dream came quietly, but it carried a heavy past. Oh, now, I'm a little cold, a little cold and a little depressed. Winter (Modern Poetry) Night comes a little early, the rain has stopped, there are many people on the bus, but I can't hear anything. The world became quiet, and I began to be a little scared, followed by fear and irritability. My heartbeat and breathing sound are amplified, amplified ... just like those sounds that should and should not be, things that are close to me are getting farther and farther away, but things that are far away from me are getting closer and closer. I want to run away for a long time, but my feet have not moved. Damn automatic doors, damn windshields, and everything that should die. I shivered, a cold wind came at me, and the world woke up again. Oh, damn it, it's just this heartless winter. Green wings in spring hold green dreams. When the traditional ice and snow melt the sky and are blown by the awakened east wind, the seeds of new hope will struggle in the soil. Small leaves swaying in the wind, full of fantasy wings, are waiting to fly in the clear morning sky. In summer, life burns in a blazing flame, and the earth once trembled in this enthusiasm. When the leaves and leaves are eager to climb the whole sky, the red fire waves have overflowed the boiling blood vessels, and everything in the future is gestating unknown restlessness and betrayal. Finally, the green leaves, which were so enthusiastic and noisy in the wind, were silent, quietly bowed their heads and stood alone in the wind, meditating happily and sadly, and sweet and melancholy tears floated into the mature soil. In the forest, on the grass, on the hill, everywhere where life breathes, everything seems to be mature. However, when the merciless snow and ice press heavily on you, you will not only hear his pain * * * When the last dead leaf leaves the branch, what you will see will be a sweet smile to bid farewell to the past era, and all the information of the second spring will be stored in the spores faintly discernible on the branch. Then, let the ruthless ice and snow bury the stale past. Perhaps, calm thinking will bring more reason, courage and sensitivity. Who will be a brand-new and better season in the future and start a brand-new first? Is the cuckoo spreading its wings in the clouds? Or, firecrackers in the farewell sound? Who planted the first hope on the dry Yuan Ye and the hard-working cattle on the yellow land? Is it father's weathered white hair on his forehead? In other words, the wrinkles on the mother's face were refuted by the rings. I only saw a wisp of drizzle and wind flying by, and in this way, your pretty cheeks were blown pink by apricot flowers and red by peach blossoms. In this way, you awakened the dream of sleeping for thousands of years and began to set foot on a new footprint. Before you get dressed in summer, the sun will scorch your heart, bearing the entrustment of spring, and you will carefully guard your first promise. In the afternoon, the dark clouds swam across the clear sky, and then shed a touching tear, washing away the tired dust on the farmers' shoulders. At this time, the newly withered shoots of the branches have given birth to new life. In the chirp of crickets, the figure was slowly elongated, elongated ... People in the crops waved sickles and hoes gnawed by years, and wrote some distant hopes with the poet's pen. Autumn sent away the last ray of hot sunshine in summer. You hold the hand of the seed and help it through two seasons. Just for the golden fruits hanging on the branches everywhere and the simple smiling faces of farmers in the fields. I can clearly see that their eyes are full of tears of joy. Finally, the ears of wheat in the rice field quietly climbed to the top of the former seedlings, bending the leaves; Also bend the reaper's back pressure and bend the shoulder pole. You comforted the sweat of farmers who have traveled for a long time with a bumper harvest. Swallows flying in the south, whose leaves have fallen back to their roots, were sent away from the treetops by you, spitting out a trace of white fog affectionately, covering up the footprints at home, leaving only blue sky and long memories. Whose winter ended the last season of 360 days, or the snowflakes falling from the top of the mountain? Is it a cold current blowing on the roof? Or, the thick cotton-padded jacket on the pedestrians in the village. Who is it, quietly sweeping away the colorful prosperity of the past, or a bug sleeping secretly in the ground? Is it the lazy dying sun? Or, a light tree that has been busy all his life? I can no longer see the apricot flowers dancing in the setting sun, and I can't hear the drizzle that moistens the girl's heart in the small building. Looking back suddenly, you have fulfilled your last promise, grabbed an endless handful of white snow, sprinkled it all over the earth, and continued to lead the songs that are not old. In the biting cold wind, wait, wait ... who is spring and who is the swallow flying in the rain? Is the cuckoo spreading its wings in the clouds? Or, firecrackers in the farewell sound? Who sowed the first seed of hope on the dry Yuan Ye and the hard-working bull on the yellow land? Is it father's weathered white hair on his forehead? In other words, the wrinkles on the mother's face were refuted by the rings. I only saw a wisp of drizzle and wind flying by, and in this way, your pretty cheeks were blown pink by apricot flowers and red by peach blossoms. In this way, you awakened the dream of sleeping for thousands of years and began to set foot on a new footprint. Before you get dressed in summer, the sun is burning your heart, bearing the entrustment of spring, and you are carefully guarding your first promise. In the afternoon, the dark clouds swam across the clear sky, and then shed a touching tear, washing away the tired dust on the farmers' shoulders. At this time, the newly withered shoots of the branches have given birth to new life. In the chirp of crickets, the figure was slowly elongated, elongated ... People in the crops waved sickles and hoes gnawed by years, and wrote some distant hopes with the poet's pen. Autumn sent away the last ray of hot sunshine in summer. You held the hand of the seed and helped you through two seasons. Just for the golden fruits hanging on the branches everywhere and the simple smiling faces of farmers in the fields. I can clearly see that their eyes are full of tears of joy. Finally, the ears of wheat in the rice field quietly climbed to the top of the former seedlings, bending the leaves; Also bend the reaper's back pressure and bend the shoulder pole. You comforted the sweat of farmers who have traveled for a long time with a bumper harvest. Swallows flying in the south, whose leaves have fallen back to their roots, were sent away from the treetops by you, spitting out a trace of white fog affectionately, covering up the footprints at home, leaving only blue sky and long memories. Whose winter ended the last season of 360 days, the snowflakes falling on the top of the mountain? Is it a cold current blowing on the roof? Or, the thick cotton-padded jacket on the pedestrians in the village. Who is it, quietly sweeping away the colorful prosperity of the past, or a bug sleeping secretly in the ground? Is it the lazy dying sun? Or, a light tree that has been busy all his life? No longer can I see the apricot flowers dancing in the setting sun, and I can't hear the drizzle that moistens the girl's heart in the small building. Looking back suddenly, you have fulfilled your last promise, grabbed an endless handful of white snow, sprinkled it all over the earth, and continued to lead the songs that are not old. In the biting cold wind, wait, wait ... who is spring and who is the swallow flying in the rain? Is the cuckoo spreading its wings in the clouds? Or, firecrackers in the farewell sound? Who planted the first hope on the dry Yuan Ye and the hard-working cattle on the yellow land? Is it father's weathered white hair on his forehead? In other words, the wrinkles on the mother's face were refuted by the rings. I only saw a wisp of drizzle and wind flying by, and in this way, your pretty cheeks were blown pink by apricot flowers and red by peach blossoms. Before you get dressed in summer, the sun is burning your heart, bearing the entrustment of spring, and you are carefully guarding your first promise. In the afternoon, the dark clouds swam across the clear sky, and then shed a touching tear, washing away the tired dust on the farmers' shoulders. At this time, the newly withered shoots of the branches have given birth to new life. In the chirp of crickets, the figure was slowly elongated, elongated ... People in the crops waved sickles and hoes gnawed by years, and wrote some distant hopes with the poet's pen. Autumn sent away the last ray of hot sunshine in summer. You held the hand of the seed and helped you through two seasons. Just for the golden fruits hanging on the branches everywhere and the simple smiling faces of farmers in the fields. I can clearly see that their eyes are full of tears of joy. Finally, the ears of wheat in the rice field quietly climbed to the top of the former seedlings, bending the leaves; Also bend the reaper's back pressure and bend the shoulder pole. You comforted the sweat of farmers who have traveled for a long time with a bumper harvest. Swallows flying in the south, whose leaves have fallen back to their roots, were sent away from the treetops by you, spitting out a trace of white fog affectionately, covering up the footprints at home, leaving only blue sky and long memories. Whose winter ended the last season of 360 days, the snowflakes falling on the top of the mountain? Is it a cold current blowing on the roof? Or, the thick cotton-padded jacket on the pedestrians in the village. Who is it, quietly sweeping away the colorful prosperity of the past, or a bug sleeping secretly in the ground? Is it the lazy dying sun? Or, a light tree that has been busy all his life? I can no longer see the apricot flowers dancing in the setting sun, and I can't hear the drizzle that moistens the girl's heart in the small building. Looking back suddenly, you have fulfilled your last promise, grabbed an endless handful of white snow, sprinkled it all over the earth, and continued to lead the songs that are not old. In the biting cold wind, wait, wait …