Looking for classic and wonderful poetry and prose!!

01 "Rain Alley".

02 "Farewell to Cambridge".

03 "The Lover's Grace".

04 "Youth Without Complaints".

05 "You Are the April Day of the World".

06 "To Yulia".

07 "I don't know which way the wind blows".

08 "Love Song".

09 "Put Your Face to My Face".

10 "News from My Lover."

11 "Say it again, please."

12 "I Remember That Wonderful Moment."

13 "Oh, let the beautiful lilacs of my lover's house."

14 "Sunrise on the Sea".

15 "Spring".

16 "Petrel".

17 "Hurry".

18 "Laughter".

19 "Begonia".

20 "Twilight".

21 "The Sound of the Piano at Dusk".

At twenty-two, I was young, beating, active, imaginative; Twenty-two-year-old me, impulsive, hesitant; At the age of twenty-two, I am no longer naïve, but still young; is not mature, but no longer ignorant; At the age of twenty-two, the sky was wet, and the rain always stained my hair, and the wind blew the strands of my hair and the folds of my trench coat left by the years; At the age of twenty-two, I am in a tranquil mood, drawing some makeup and kissing the sun; At the age of twenty-two, my family affection is in my heart, friendship is still bright and innocent, love is hazy and rational, I have learned to cherish and tolerate; At the age of twenty-two, I am silent and crazy, I have learned to forget, understand being forgotten, learn to be strong, know how to hide sadness, perceive the charm of laughter, and interpret myself with tears; At the age of twenty-two, I wanted to wander, but my steps were steady; At the age of twenty-two, I will also have sentimentality, and I will always go after everything is ready; Twenty-two-year-old youth is an article of nostalgia, a poem.

When the cobwebs mercilessly seized my hearth.

When the smoke of ashes sighs the sorrow of poverty.

I am still stubbornly laying out the ashes of hope.

Write with beautiful snowflakes: Believe in the future.

When my purple grapes turn to late autumn dew.

When my flowers snuggle up to someone else's feelings.

I still stubbornly use the withered vines of frost.

Write on the bleak earth: Believe in the future.

The reason why I firmly believe in the future.

It is the eyes of people who believe in the future.

She has eyelashes that sweep away the dust of history.

Regardless of people's perception of our rotten flesh.

The melancholy of being lost, the pain of failure.

It is a tear of emotion, a deep sympathy.

Or give a contemptuous smile and a spicy mockery.

I'm a firm believer in people's trust for our backbone.

Those countless explorations, lost, failures, and successes.

We must give an objective and fair assessment.

Yes, I anxiously await their assessment.

Friends, believe firmly in the future.

Believe in indomitable efforts.

Believe in the youth that triumphs over death.

Believe in the future and love life.

Sauvignon Blanc, often separated, Sauvignon Blanc, often together.

How deep is the lovesickness?

Only tears know.

The geese return and return, the leaves return to the branches and fall to the ground, only the ruthless people don't understand, what does lovesickness mean.

Acacia dreams float, lovesickness meets in the air, lovesickness is difficult to solve sorrows, and infatuation gathers in the distant period.

Time is like flowing water, years are like stars, and when it is reunited, lovesickness becomes speechless.

Savor it carefully, the old songs are like strings of shining diamonds, which have been polished over the years, and they have become more and more dazzling. In fact, what is awakened by the old song is not only the memory, but also the long-extinguished desire and enthusiasm for a new life. Songs lead us, and dreams, to share on the edge of dreams, to grope for the source of memories, and in dreams it will be a beautiful paradise – where there will be no hatred, no tears, no poverty, no sickness, no deception, no ...... sinTherefore, the conclusion of our own confusion, so the acceptance or non-acceptance of contradictions and conflicts, let us reflect on ourselves in the song, let us calm down, and let our hearts fly in the song.

Selected Prose Poetry.

Prose poem I. I never want to give up a piece of paper, I always keep it—keep it.

They were folded into very small boats and thrown out of the boat and thrown into the sea.

Some were swept into the windows of the boat by the wind, and some were wet by the waves and stuck on the bow of the boat.

I still don't lose heart, stacking it every day, always hoping that one can flow to where I want it to go.

Mother, if you see a very small white boat in your dreams, don't be surprised that it falls asleep for no reason.

This is your beloved daughter with tears in her eyes, thousands of rivers and mountains, begging it to carry her love and sorrow back.

Prose poem II. A singing forest.

There is a singing forest.

The song of the forest is pure and melodious. It seems that there are many singers singing, some light and leisurely, some high-pitched and ......

It's the trees singing, right? The forest is mostly full of trees.

I walked into the forest, into the song. The song is like a small piece of sunshine, jumping on the branches, flying in the forest, walking, seeing, listening. When I found out that the most in the forest was not a tree, I found a real singer.

Lo and behold, there are many, many small birds on every tree. Every little bird loves to sing.

The song of the birds, sprinkled from the treetops, flowed through the gaps in the branches and leaves into a golden waterfall of sunshine.

The song of the bird, hanging on the leaves of the branches, forms a crystal dewdrop.

The song of the birds, the red strawberries that fall on the ground, the round mushrooms and all kinds of beautiful flowers.

The song of the little bird, jumping into the stream, turned into a ...... of small fish, small crabs, and small shrimp jumping aroundThe song of the birds became the song of the forest. Oh, and every forest sings.

Prose poem 3: Youth is a poem.

A never-say-die song.

Youth is one.

A river that never stops.

Youth is a book.

A book you never get tired of reading.

Youth is a cup.

Endless tea.

Youth is one.

Standing at the peak of the forest of nations.

Engrave the footprints of thousands of young people.

Youth is a pagoda of knowledge.

Sprinkle the sweat of thousands of young people.

Youth is a tree that is thriving.

Tested by wind and rain.

Youth is one.

Budding buds.

I want to show my own style to the world.

I use a passionate unrestrained one.

The Heart of Youth Give yourself a gift of youth.

That is the poetry of youth.