On all sides of the pond, far and near, high and low are trees, and the willow is the most. These trees surrounded the pond; only on the side of the path, there were a few gaps, as if for the moonlight. The color of the trees was always gloomy, and at first glance it looked like a cloud of smoke; but the gracefulness of the willows could be discerned even in the smoke. On the top of the trees is a band of distant mountains, only a little careless. In the cracks of the trees are also leaking one or two points of street light, listless, is thirsty sleeper's eyes. The most lively at this time of year is the sound of cicadas in the trees and frogs in the water; but the noise is theirs, and I have nothing.
The mountain ranges pillowed each other, snuggled up, prostrate in the hazy moonlight sleep peacefully. I didn't realize that the mountains that I had seen repeatedly during the day, recreated by the moonlight, were like a fairyland. The trees on the mountain were crowded and embraced, and entered the dreamland. Pine trees and other trees, high, hovering canopy, such as umbrellas, such as clouds, such as flotsam, like a ghostly ink painting in the night. The mountains are breathing, the trees are breathing, the air is breathing, the night is breathing ...... At this moment, gaze, can see the end of the world; at this moment, listen, can hear the cape. Listeners and watchers, not ears and not eyes, is the heart, is the moon night help also.
Clouds, floating around, dancing with the wind, will bring my wishes together with that blue sky. I am in pursuit of that white dream, light and soft, that is the cradle of another person's fascination. I looked away, ran, and chased it all the way to the other side of the mountain. It is still so close to me, so far away, I am confused, frustrated, do not know whether I should continue to run, or waiting on the edge of the watch? How could the beauty of that cotton wool not be enviable? How can its ever-changing body not be mesmerizing? The sun shines on it, it uses its body to cover the sun's face, so its soft lines are covered with a golden luster, it is transformed into a horse, and then into a fish, and then rolling, and then waves. It was as beautiful as a maiden and as lively as a child. I want to fly to its side and possess it. But I don't know how to treat it and own it. It is a holy petal in my heart, holding it in my hand for fear that it will fly away, and holding it in my mouth for fear that it will melt.
The sun is gradually westward, we throw all the way through the dribs and drabs, the wind said, that is rain. I said, no, that's the spirit of dampness, the essence of water.
The rain of the warm heavens, densely woven diagonally, like curtains of scattered water. The dry world became moist with the sound of dripping and hammering. The leaves become greener, the air becomes brighter, and people's mood begins to be rumpled up. Holding a small umbrella walking in the rain, let the rain beat the heart of the years, into the ground deep and shallow puddles. The distant green hills in the dense smoke, people can not help but think of that poetry, such as painting, such as song, like a fairyland-like paradise. Smoke filled river has long been missing drifting fishing boats, and my thoughts are still immersed in that "green Ruo hat, green Demoiselle, the wind and rain do not have to return" in the situation, do not want to come out.
Pessimistic people, first defeated by themselves, and then defeated by life; optimistic people, first defeated themselves, and then defeated life. Pessimistic people, the pain suffered is limited, the future is also limited; optimistic people, the trials and tribulations infinite, the future is also infinite. In the eyes of a pessimist, what was possible can become impossible; in the eyes of an optimist, what was impossible can become possible. Pessimism can only produce mediocrity, optimism can create outstanding. From the outstanding people, it is not difficult to find the spirit of optimism; from the mediocre people, we can easily find the shadow of gloom.
The moonlight is like an orange and indifferent liquid, the mountains and rivers scenery dipped in the moonlight, heavenly peace and quiet. Alone in the moonlight, calm and peaceful mind, in the acceptance of the moonlight wise scrutiny, life is a moment, life is beautiful, the human mind should also be beautiful, what we do should be worthy of this beautiful world, worthy of this beautiful moonlight; beautiful mind in order to illuminate into the beautiful moonlight, the beautiful heart of the people, only dare to face this beautiful moonlight alone quietly and soul peace.
If the blackboard is the vast ocean, then the teacher is the sea sailor. The moment the bell rings, you use the staff whip as a pulp, rowing that ship-like moored in the harbor of the textbook. On the desk, the problem is stacked, as if the reefs are arranged, you gesture vividly as a flying bird, on the podium waving a beautiful arc - the ship through ...... the sky does not come a cloud, as if you bright heart, a faction of the high and distant.
Thanks to life thanks to the gift of nature, my life boat banished the noise, pollution and congestion, moored into this pool of moonlight, encountered this bright as a dream landscape. Enchanted in the moonlight and heavenly music, I even forgot when I was how to enter the moonlight, and did not think to get out of the moonlight, out of this quiet and pleasant dream.
The warm rain cleanses the dust of how much history, just I can't restore, can't be clearly visible to describe the sadness of the ancients. I can only hold a small umbrella, pacing on the road where the previous person has walked, with the youthful thoughts to savor a paragraph of the remote story, and then turned into soil, hidden fragrance. The rain pattered down, slipping away in the cracks of the path, like a young girl hiding a sad past in the pharynx. Through the rain curtain to see the gray sky, dust and how many stories are not known? And I see to still just a rain, a small road, a lonely river, and I, holding a small umbrella, in the wind and rain in the shape of a single shadow stood.
The rain is the spirit of dampness, the soul of water. Just how many moving stories it has turned into dirt, even the fragrance is hidden in the dirt. The fragrance that emanates into the air may be the story's trust, or my poor reverie. My tears fell attached to the rain, and I could not tell which was the rain and which was the tears, and I wondered if that was the essence of water.
Life is a long game of chess. This game of chess does not have a hunting west wind, there is no smoke, only in the choice of trade-offs and in and out of the choice. Only like the pawn in the chess, the courage to go forward, without flinching along the road of life, difficult and persistent search, forward, will write the most magnificent song of life's strongest.
In the river of time, we only have their own strand of moonlight, a little unappreciated, will go to the day more bitter, everything into a waste of time. Do not see, this moon party from ancient times, through the vicissitudes of life, through the rise and fall, send a thousand years of flow, see flowers blossom and fall ...... king moon, frosty morning moon, Guanshan moon, red ray moon, all gone! The mountains and rivers are silent and silent, and they are sound asleep; people do not cherish the moon and the moon is bright, how should we grasp this ray of moonlight? The early winter moon is hanging high and silent, juanran like a wash.
Just like the world does not have exactly the same two leaves, everyone has a copy of their own unique excellence. Good tolerance for the shortcomings of others, good to appreciate the excellence of others, not only for the open-minded, but also embodies a kind of wisdom in dealing with people. And the sooner you can find your own best place, the more you can give full play to your potential, the more you can embrace success.
The night, a hint of cool, the wind, sniffing the window of the jasmine, elegant fragrance, convergence into a trace of tenderness, drunken stars sleepless night. At this time, I listened to a song "a little bit of condensation smoke". Classical gentle music slowly came, like a long lost friend, trekking thousands of mountains and waters to find me a thousand times, sweetly look back, met me in the jasmine fragrance moment. In the midst of joy, I abandoned the lock of my heart to the willow smoke, and opened my heart to welcome a piece of heavenly music. The perfect combination of erhu and guzheng, a crisp and pleasant, reminiscent of the big pearls falling from the jade plate, a melodious and melancholy, people can not help but mourn a little. Close your eyes, let your thoughts drift into Zhuang Sheng's butterfly, branded with the beauty of the sea and the moon, in the vastness of the blue field and the warmth of the sun, fly, fly away to the realm of a little bit of condensed smoke.
In the past forty years of my career, the winter people taste the most profound to be counted ten years ago when the first moved to the marquis, ten years, Baima Lake has become a small village, when I moved to the marquis, or a piece of wilderness, Chunhui Middle School's new building stands in the lake on the side of the lake, the lake on the side of the foot of the hill is a small number of new flat houses, live in me and Liu Junxin such as the two families. In addition, there is no one within two or three miles. The family moved to this desolate mountainous countryside from the bustling Hangzhou in November of the lunar calendar, just like plunging into the polar belt.
When you are in the face of warm winds, birds and flowers, green hills and green water, the hectares of spring, you will be intoxicated; when you face like gold like silver, fruitful autumn season, you will be delighted. Have you ever thought, that the spring is full of color is baptized by the cold after the Yingzi, that the beauty of the golden autumn is to accept the crystallization of the melting of the summer.
The wind there, almost every day, whistling, as if the tiger roars, although the building system is newly built, the construction is extremely rough, the wind from the door and window gaps, extraordinarily sharp, the door and window gaps thick with paper, citron seams, but there is still penetration, I scraped the formidable hours, the day before the night to the door closed, the whole family ate a night meal that is to sleep into the quilt, listening to the cold wind's forgiveness of the number of the lake's surging. The small back of the mountain Xuan, is considered my study, in the whole house is the least wind in a room, I often pull the head of the borscht hat low in the foreign lamps under the work until late at night. Pine waves such as roar, frost moon when the window, hungry mice squeaking in the dust run, I in this kind of time, y feel the depression of the poetic interest, often alone scratching the ashes of the stove, refused to go to sleep, the self-portrait of the characters in the landscape paintings, to make all kinds of faraway reverie.
The clothes in the wanton enjoyment become messy, like the mood can not be cleaned up. Will throw the sorrow, in the wind up and down, cohesion into a white paper, calling the childish echo, leaving a light crease, transformed into a paper airplane, in the wind to do the road in the time tunnel fly ah fly. The curved arcs in the air are smiles, cries and unfinished dreams. When the paper airplane glides in a circle, the thoughts also swim in a continuation of the temperature of the past. When the plane is slowly falling, the memories will be crushed in the waves, and hidden in the wind wishes are still doing the aftermath of the frustration.
The June breeze, knocking down the memory of the fall of the clear astringent, body and mind refreshing, from the fingertips to the bottom of the heart. The stiff body in the stand with the wind posture swaying. Leaves gently dance, the rustling sound intoxicates people with warmth and touches, touched in the rhythm of the big sound. I gently shed the sweat stains on the body, searching for the heart of a former teenager, will be clear to send their own fuzzy memories.
The wind is a boat from the clouds, full of childhood longing, changing the water on the side of the heart. So step by step to the place where there is water, reflecting the wind walked through the reflection, just can not be captured, let a wisp of melancholy in the smoke faded. The wind whipped the ripples on the water, stretching in the pure sight. The gentle delicacy dancing in the waves, intoxicated and flipping in the gusts of humid air.
Now the White Horse Lake to the outside are the whole child, from the upper mountain from straight to the lower mountain until the light. When the sun is good, as long as the wind is not blowing, it is so warm that it is not like winter. The family is sitting in the courtroom exposure to the sun, and even to eat lunch outside the house, like the summer dinner, sunlight to there on the chairs and stools moved there, suddenly the cold wind came, had to flee like each with chairs and stools to escape into the room, hastily close the door, in normal days, the wind is probably in the afternoon about the time of evening, the middle of the night that is, as for the big wind chill, that is the whole day and night roar to the end of the two or three days. The coldest days, the mud looks as white as the Watergate River, the mountains are frozen purple and dull, the lake wave pan dark blue.
I often dream that I become a cloud, colorful, come and go freely. The wind is my companion, swimming recklessly with me in the ocean of the sky, and we learn from the pious quaffle, racing against the sun. The wind tells me that we leave behind a tale of the sky's light and clouds *** wandering. I told the wind, don't run yet, the heavenly Quaestor expects our triumphant figure. The wind started to be fierce and so did my running, forgetting time and space. The sun tanned my skin black, I smiled at the wind, it's nothing, it's a healthy color. In the midst of running, I heard the sound of the quartet shouting for support, and I saw the appreciative smile of the sun. The wind said, running is a kind of power, we forget why we chase. I say, sometimes the chase does not need a reason, because it is a devout faith.
The zigzagging lotus ponds above, the 弥 望的是田田的叶子. The leaves are very high out of the water, like the skirt of a dancer. Layers of leaves in the middle, sporadically dotted with some white flowers, there are curly open, there are shyly dozen; as a grain of pearl, such as the stars in the blue sky, and as just out of the bath of the beauty. Breeze, send a wisp of fragrance, as if the distant high building faint song. At this time the leaves and flowers also have a tremor, like lightning, all of a sudden spread across the lotus pond over there. The leaves are shoulder to shoulder and close together, which is like a condensed blue wave mark. Underneath the leaves is a vein of running water, covered, can not see some color; but the leaves are more to see the style.
Snow is my fear of the original not hate, snow days, indoor bright night almost do not need to burn lamps, snow in the distant mountains, enough for me to watch half a month, raise your head can be seen from the window. But in the end is the south, every winter snow but one or two times, where I daily appreciate the flavor of winter, almost all from the wind. White Horse Lake so windy, can be said to have a geographical reason, where the original lake are mountains, and the north head is a half-mile wide gap, so only intentionally open the mouth of the bag to welcome the wind to the appearance of the lake's landscape, and the ordinary landscape is not far from the only wind is different from the rest of the world. The wind is more and more big, anyone who has been there knows. Wind in the winter feeling, since ancient times point with an important factor, and the wind of the White Horse Lake is particularly special.
The sound of the guzheng, as cold as the winter water, in the spring warm wind clear season, swung open a cavity of soft, layer by layer, wave by wave, flooded with green budding tide. Remote thought, twenty-four bridges under the moon, is the piper sound for koto music, gently tell the dream of the regret of the previous dynasty, a talk is a thousand years, the world's frost shook down the red beans in the South, ice on the end of the world, why, a bit of condensation of smoke around the music to do the sound does not fall apart, ringing in every corner of my heart. Guzheng around the ear, is the blue water gurgling and flowing, each note is like a head down and standing maidservant, pear blossom like snow face withered in the palace wall at the green willow. Guzheng is like water, carrying up how many dreams of life, floating up in the depths of the red dust, how many years, like water still flow, such as the beauty of the flowers has been hastily thanked for the red flowers. Guzheng silk, and meditation in the mood, coiled into rolling hills, each peak, each endurance, are involved in the ancient legends. In the legend, there will be an immortal hermit? All day long away from the hustle and bustle, read the clouds rolled, the gentleman prudent in solitude of the ancient motto, dissolve into nature, look down on life. This koto music piled up in the mountains, leaving Confucius when traveling around the rut, deep and shallow traces, written in the "know stop fixed, fixed and can be quiet, quiet and can be safe, safe and can be considered, considered and can be gained the ancient aphorisms.
The erhu is a ghost, in my ears, always has a cold percolating into the bone, always blood and tears like an accusation of what. With this music, the erhu rhythm soft into smoke, soaring and soothing, flowing like a jade belt, y haunted by the koto paved mountains, imagined that the clouds and smoke in the smoke, the peaks of the mountains if hidden, and sometimes dew a corner, and then all hidden, and that smoke, gently around, such as a dream, like a dream, such as a poem, such as a picture. Is that the reputation of the world's White Causeway, extended from a mountain, smoke with the embankment all the way to the dust, do not give up, snuggle up to each other, there is the West Lake Spring Dawn of the country and the city. Erhu array, lingering low, such as sobbing, is a wisp of smoke, blue water generated by the smoke, surrounded by a shroud of koto flow into the water, unwilling to disperse, refused to float away, according to the water, murmuring with the gentleman born of the coolness of my unborn. A little bit of cohesion, a thread of winding, finally built that broken bridge. Broken bridge should be covered with snow? No, the tenderness of the smoke dissolved the snow, flowing into the spell of the White Lady's water flooded San Francisco, to witness the thousand years of waiting for a vow. Erhu sound like smoke, around the mountain, around the water, the mountains and water, green smoke dance, purple mist, this is a fairyland on earth, during the swim, drink a pot of old wine, hang a green sword in the waist, ride a flat boat, drifting with the water, above the blue water, under the dome of the sky, the wind is full of sleeves, the intention is full of the chest, and how cozy, such as if the true will, what more do you ask for?
Autumn is still thick, suddenly to the early winter, the moon also with the autumn temperature, into the winter night sky.
It's getting dark early, and I'm going back to the dormitory in the dark after dinner, and I'm going over the hill, and I can see the orange and yellow moon over the southwest hillside, and it's low and full and big and fresh, and it's a wonderful feeling of kindness that's coming from the bottom of my heart. In the night, the black mountain peaks scattered and listed, the end of the field of vision, a ridge across the sky to catch the evening sun; dimming the afterglow side, the silhouette of the mountain such as a light ink painting, near the outline of the mountain is like a thick ink paint out of the same; the southwest exit direction of the hillside, the mountain quickly open, rolling peaks, like a black wave, majestic in the melting moonlight; moonlight over the mountain slopes and nearby mountains and rivers moonlight is charming, give people this month is designed for The moonlight is so beautiful that it gives people a sense of beauty that the moon is exclusively for this place. This moonlight mountain color is too beautiful! Looking at the bright moon, seems to forget their own existence, only a wisp of beautiful emotions, feathered in this moonlight.
The rain fell quietly, only a little thin pattering sound. Orange-red houses, like old monks in brightly colored robes, hung their heads and closed their eyes, baptized by the rain. The damp red bricks, emitting the color of irritating pig's blood and the green laurel leaves under the wall became a strong contrast. The gray toad, jumping in the wet and moldy mud; in the dreary net of the autumn rain, it was the only thing full of pleasant life. The gray and yellow mottled pattern on its back corresponded distantly with the dreary sky, creating harmonious tones. It plopped and jumped, from the grassy niche, into the mud, splashing deep green. The rain, like silvery-gray, sticky, moist spider silk, weaves a gentle web, netting the entire world of autumn.
Wandering alone in the moonlight, the daytime must be thought about and even worry about, at this moment all forgotten, and the daytime have no time to care about or even long forgotten, but some will be clearly remembered. Such beautiful moonlight will make the deepest treasures of the heart bloom, and even the pain will become beautiful. But more than anything else, the moonlight makes me think about nothing, relax physically and mentally, and my breathing becomes slight and even, imperceptible. I am like a fish that swims into the clear water to "steal the clear", floating in the moonlight, sucking the moonlight, drawing the clear light, or mooring or wandering, like a drunken man.
Rain, like a silvery gray sticky wet spider silk, weaving a gentle net, netting the whole world of autumn. The sky, too, was dark and dreary, like the roofs of old dwellings tangled in spider's webs. The grayish-white clouds that piled up in the sky were like white powder peeling off the roof. Everything was unusually dull under the shroud of this ancient roof. The green pomegranates, mulberry trees, and grapevines in the garden, which represented nothing more than the prosperity of the past summer, were now like the remains of ancient Roman buildings, shrinking in the sound of the rain and recalling the glorious past. Grass has turned into a melancholy yellow, the ground can not find a bit of fresh flowers; dormitory wall along the delicate planted daffodils, drooping head, with eyes full of teardrops, where they sighed their fate, only after two days of sunny and beautiful days and then encountered such a moldy rainy day. Only the osmanthus in the corner of the wall, the branches have been adorned with a few precious young stamens like gold, carefully hidden under the green oval leaf petals, revealing a bit of hope for the sprouting of new life.
The orange moon, the orange light, the orange light floating hanging gently frost. Clear emptiness of the night sky, I seem to feel the flow of moonlight, feel the rhythm of the moonlight, Ying realized that the human emotions and moonlight fluctuations of the interdependence of the melting; in this soft and beautiful moonlight, as long as one stares at an emotion, as if one can hear the low and beautiful "Liang Zhu" song, see the floating as a dream of the "Swan Lake"...... is not the birth of these works also experienced the conception of the moonlight, but also the creation of the moon. The birth of these works has also experienced the moonlight breeding, the author's inspiration has also been nourished and watered by moonlight? Otherwise, how could these beautiful things be restored in this moonlight?
The guzheng dingtong, a sound, like the morning bells and drums ringing a few times on earth, arousing a few of the most true memories, is the dust, blowing reed reed long wind, swept through my slightly confused heart, a hard to find the seclusion into a grain of seed, implanted in my heart, I should be a reverent worship, let it flourish into a big tree in the sky. Erhu melodious, a burst, like a thousand years of dust, dispersing the immortal wind and bone, brush away the dirt of my heart, those sadness and happiness, generated a meteor, flashed through a trace, fell into the vast universe. Looking back to the end of the world, the old dream is far away, only to hear the condensed smoke a little light sob dust. The night is like water, the sound of music is like water, drenched my thin sleeves, is music to provoke people, or people provoke music?