Anmelden » live old dreams? It �

I like to read Yu Dafu's works. Although they are considered to be "lyrical prose, sad poems", I still like the kind of clear and sad, the slight sadness and elegance. His masterpiece "Autumn of the Old Capital" seems to come with a cold and calm brush stroke, and after reading it carefully, the trace of loneliness and loneliness, nostalgia and nostalgia in the cold and grim can't help but hit him. Whenever this time, a delicate nerve in the bottom of my heart will be touched, and I will also start to write an article to commemorate the autumn in my hometown. Because my hometown is in the backcountry, I do n��t have too many allusions of scenic spots for me to write. However, the autumn in my hometown has its own beauty and charm, which is different from other places, so it has always been memorable for many years. Autumn in my memory is shrouded in soft, warm and gorgeous luster. It is flattering because it is rich in content; it is gracious because it is plain. Golden is the tone of hometown autumn. When you look around, everything you see is gorgeous golden. It is soft, warm, and shines with maturity. In the fields, the golden ears of corn fell down and shyly; on the high ground, the golden sorghums danced in the wind; the leaves in the orchard and on the dyke were already painted with gold by the generous autumn angel. When I was young, I liked to walk in the woods in the afternoon and feel the breath of nature. The bright sun shone warmly through the golden woods, and the leaves were rustling in the breeze. All this has made me young nostalgic, I hate to build a small house in the forest for leisure and leisure time, to read my favorite book in the beautiful scenery. Years later, I read Thoreau's biography, which wrote that he built a house and lived alone on the shores of Lake Walden, as if he had seen the young me again. At that time, I could only describe that happy mood with a single word from Thoreau: If I were rich, it was definitely not money. What I had was sunny days and summer days to spend. . When I was young, I liked climbing up the dam west of my hometown with my friends in the autumn afternoon and picking acorns in the forest above. Because the acorn is rich in starch, after removing the shell, it can be made into a delicious jelly powder, so the family does not object to our trip. After lunch, stepping on the mottled light and shadow on the path, we set off with a basket and set off. The afternoon forest attracted our children like a magical maze. Inside it was dry and warm, with tall oaks (also known as oaks), maples, and many other well-known trees standing upright like sentries. Their leaves have been dyed red by the autumn wind, and a song called "Afternoon Travel" was played in the breeze in the breeze. The ground is thick with fallen leaves, red oak and maple leaves, yellow sycamore leaves, and some strangely unknown leaves. Walking on the soft hay and leaves, we saw the sunlight leaking through the leaf slits obliquely on the red leaves on the ground, and those leaves showed an inviting noble dark red. If we were lucky, we could meet a few wild hawthorn trees. Everyone usually unwillingly "mops" and then leaves. When the sun was setting in the west, we had already collected a basket full of acorns and set off on our way home Parliament Cigarettes. Whenever I think of that lovely forest, Monet's landscape paintings can't help but come up, because only the works of this master can be compared with the landscapes in memory Online Cigarettes. Ye Shengtao's "A Place Where Autumn Bugs Can't Get Into" describes the distress that he lives in the market, and can't hear the tweets of autumn bugs, but there is no such worry in autumn in his hometown. In the autumn night sky, the bright moon is high, the stars are brilliant, and the warm wind blows away the toil and fatigue of the day. As a young man, I like to pull my mother to sleep on the top of the bungalow holding the mattress. Lying on the soft mattress, open your eyes and stare at the stars, these shining stars will blink Newport 100S. Which star is the mother. Which star is me? The chirping of the autumn bugs sounded in the quiet night, and the little girl's gaze was full of longing for the future. The story of the Milky Way told by her mother accompanied her into the dream ... Do not like Van Gogh, because he is too manic, the works are full Despair and depression. I would rather listen to Richard's Starry Sky than watching his Starry Night. In the still night sky, a shooting star disappeared. It cuts through the sky and silently falls to unknown places; it has gone through the course of life and has also played the world's absolute sound. In the middle of the night I often weep while listening to this piece of music, because it is too beautiful and beautiful. Why cry? I often ask myself this way��not because of the sentimentality inherent, but for the ephemeral water-like years, for the youth that will never come again, for the youth that is slowly leaving, why can girls and mothers look up at the stars again and listen Worm, relive old dreams? It ��s been so long since I left my hometown, I do n��t know if it is still the same now
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