If poetry can't be produced as naturally as a tree grows leaves,
it's better not to be produced at all
Keats: Poetry needs to know through feeling that
the point of diving into a lake is not to swim to the shore immediately, It's the process of being in the lake,
enjoying the feeling of the water without having to know the lake well
Keats: Poetry will soothe and inspire the mind to accept the mystery
Fanny: When the heart of the candle goes out she rushes in a little smoke Dies in the dim moonlight She closes the door Phantom of mind breathing like air Far from
Fanny: When I don't hear from him
As if I'm going to die
As if the air in my lungs is pumped
I feel desolate and lonely
But when I hear from him
I know our world is real It 's
the world I love
Keats: on the soft breasts of my beautiful love
Forever feeling the gentle ups and downs
Forever awake in sweet unease
Keep listening to her tender breath
So or die in ecstasy
Fanny: bright star, May I be as firm as you
are not alone and splendidly hanging high in the night sky
, staring at the ever-open eyes
like nature's stoic hermit
tide running the priesthood
purification and baptism around the worldly coast of humanity
or staring at the softly falling new
snow snow-covered hills and the mountains. Wild
Fanny: Knight, why
are you troubled and wandering alone and depressed?
The reeds in the lake have withered and the
birds no longer sing
Keats: I met a beautiful woman on the lawn
Flawless, like a fairy
, with long hair, light steps,
and spirituality in her eyes,
I carried her on the horse I was walking on, and
all day long she was the only one in my eyes
She reclined and sang the fairy song
Fanny: she gathered sweetness for me The grass roots
and wild honey and nectar
are also wonderful
. She said, "I really love you."
Fanny: When we wake up, will it all be a dream?
There must be another life, and we cannot be born to endure this kind of suffering.
Keats: Let's pretend spring I'll be back
Fanny: You'll be back I know
Keats: We'll live in the country
Fanny: Live near mom
Keats: Look out from our bedroom there's a small apple orchard behind the orchard there's a cast Misty Mountain
Fanny: We build a garden full of wildflowers Keats : We
sleep before sunset Chest, your arms, your waist Fanny: every part Keats : Touching will leave a memory The opium was swallowed, so it sank toward the Lexi Wangchuan: I am not jealous of your luck, but your happiness makes me too happy- for in the bright world in the woods, you, light-winged fairy, You hide in the green and shadow of the beech,
Let go of your voice and sing summer.
Hey, if only there was a sip of wine! The alcoholic beverage that has
been underground for many years
reminds people of the green state,
flower gods, love songs, sunshine and dance!
If there were a cup of southern warmth,
full of crimson fountains of inspiration,
with pearly foam on the rim and purplish
stains on the lips;
oh, I would drink and leave the world,
and go with you to hide in the dark woods:
far away Land, far away, let me forget everything
you never knew in the leaves,
forget this fatigue, fever, and restlessness,
this world that makes one sit and lament;
where youth is pale, thin, dead,
and "Paralysis" has a few white hairs swaying;
here, a little thought is full of
sadness and gray despair,
while "beauty" can't keep the brilliance of bright eyes, and the
new love will wither before tomorrow.
Go! Go! I'm going to fly towards you,
without having to ride in the chariot of Wenbao with the god of wine,
I'm going to spread out the invisible wings of poetry,
even though the mind is tired and tired;
go! Oh, I have gone with you!
The night is so gentle, the moon is on her throne,
surrounded by a group of stars that guard her;
but it is not very bright here,
except for a ray of sky light, carried by the breeze,
green gloom, and mossy winding paths.
I can't see what kind of grass is at my feet,
What fragrant flowers hang on the branches;
in the warm darkness, I can only guess what fragrance
this season should
give to this fruit tree, the luxuriant forest, and the grass,
this white citrus flower, and the rose of the field,
this green leaf is easy to fade. The violets,
and the coddle of mid-May, the dew-
laden musk rose,
which becomes the haunting harbour of the gnats on summer nights.
I listened in the dark: oh, how many times
have I almost fallen in love with silent death,
I have exhausted good words in poetry,
begging him to scatter my breath into the void;
and now, oh, death is more How rich:
in the middle of the night when you are out of the world,
when you are pouring
out such ecstasy!
You will still sing, but I no longer hear it—
your funeral song can only be sung to a piece of grass.
O immortal bird, you will not die!
Hungry generations cannot ravage thee;
Tonight I stumbled upon a
song that delighted ancient emperors and villagers;
perhaps the same song that stirred
Ruth 's melancholy heart, made her weep,
standing in the midst of a foreign land. Gu Tianli thinks of home;
it is the voice that often drives the casement
in the lost fairyland:
a beautiful woman looking at the sinister waves of the sea.
Oh, lost! This sentence is like a bell
that jolted me awake to where I was standing!
do not! Fantasy, this deceitful babe,
Can't keep playing its rumored tricks.
do not! do not! Your complaining song
flows over the lawn, over the quiet stream, and
up the hillside; at this moment, it is
buried in the nearby valley:
oh, is this an illusion, or a dream?
The singing is gone - am I sleeping? Are you awake?
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