Famous modern poetry, a little more, the more the merrier

Poetry is shorter than prose, but it is also an aesthetic art. What are some poems about famous writers? The following is a long modern poem by a famous writer that I have compiled for you, I hope you enjoy it.

Longer Modern Poetry by Famous Authors 1: Beneath the Surface.

The empty shells of the cicadas, which have essentially deserted, echo the wind.

Without exception, green and red and black cut the earth.

A blue and a purple one.

The cultivated farmland has steps stretching out towards the top of the mountain.

Think like straw about the human condition.

Cows graze with their heads down.

Walk a row of crescents in the mud.

A bloody flood.

Carrying a descent hat down the mountain.

Cooking smoke brings tranquility.

An old man's disgusting face was smeared in the candlelight.

The truth is in the shadow.

The roots of the bean seedlings are wound along the sticks.

The rice is soaked in wooden barrels.

There is not much left, a dry and a glory, followed by rain, snow, mountain wind.

Blowing yellow leaves and bending bamboo branches.

Dusk falls halfway up the mountain.

A small bluestone broken road.

The mountain sun is a bunch of morning dew at two o'clock, exhaling the cold source of friendship.

Regardless of return or return.

Unintentionally, Fang Fei is not jealous of the barking dog in the summer night.

I visited the mountain temple, explored the secluded forest, and dreamed of returning.

Anyway, it's invalid, how not to be angry.

After folding his wings, he flew north in anger.

Longer modern poems by famous writers 2: Begonias.

Regardless of the tea, quietly.

The beauty of the red spirit, in the branches.

We can't hear it, it's blown by the wind.

Three days and three nights are long, and there are whispers.

I can see clearly, a tree and a girl.

The bony petals open their mouths, and the stamens.

Hatching worms, in it.

Turning around and reading Zheng circles, chatting gossip.

Whoever loves to look at it, like a madman.

Look at it from its flowers, flowers.

There is no flash, shrug and shrug.

Leisurely rippling and smiling.

I don't have to look, she doesn't have to look.

The little sister and the lover brother smiled at each other.

For the beauty of the flower, its fragrance.

The one tree'The sky is full of red and red flowers.

A Longer Modern Psalm 3 by a Famous Author: Touching My Melancholy Heart.

It is not an axe that can cut off the branches of a tree.

It is not the language of the axe that can be used to plant the inspiration of a living tree.

It is not the language of the violent that can cover up the language of the axe.

It is not the decoration of the violent person that can hide the idea of the axe.

A branch with a severed arm and a green hand holding.

Words to the sky, complaints to the sky.

It's an eye, it's a mouth dripping with blood.

Witness the great inspiration of the axe.

Witnessed the great danger of the axe.

The spirituality of the axe is like splitting the life in the soul.

Scattered wafers fall like stars into a cool lake in autumn.

Walking on the shore of the cool lake in autumn, hear what is left behind.

The cry of the pearl that evaporated and drifted away.

From the black danger of the grass and the shadow of the dangerous axe, flashed.

It touched my melancholy .........

Chapter 1: Be the most beautiful for yourself.

Let it fly into the blue sky. Let the green mountains be tread.

The same changes.

One by one.

Think about it over and over again.

One trip at a time.

Deep love. Full of courage and strength.

Write a poem and a song.

Turn the page to a story.

Look for a spring.

Keep working hard.

Step into every tomorrow.

Make a legend through the ages.

Raise your head to be worshipped.

Be the most beautiful to yourself.

Chapter 2: A small grass and a small flower.

This leaves without starlight and moon at night, melancholy.

A few drops of fluorescent light, who is it? With me, sitting in the yard, sad together, painful in **?

The crickets floating in the green grass, a few miserable screams, but no, I will, die of sorrow in the dark shadows of the night, then grab a few green strips!

Qingli still has dreams that are not dead, and the morning sun will wake them up.

If there is light in the dew, the soul shines.

So I went and lit a candle and turned the wax tree into a fiery candle.

The cold wind that floats at will, the twist that goes to the knife and cuts my twist, and the elves that flow out of the light.

Wings of the dark shadow of the night, you can stir up as much as you want!

You have stirred my sorrows and awakened my soul's longing.

In the sky the stars, the eyes of the sun, a little grass and a small flower.

Chapter 3: Rainy Season.

I can't find the way you came, I can't catch it, the breath of the wind, I only know, the direction you came from is called the sky, and the depths of the clouds are your place.

The east wind doesn't come and the south wind doesn't go, you drain like a jade pendant, you can't sleep at night, push the window to send twilight, warblers cry tears, and the tide overflows the house.

I can't find your deep footsteps.

Can't hold on, your fleeting figure.

All you know is that you are draped in an infinite veil.

Runqin: It's not March and the third day of the new year.

Passing by your passing, the smoke basket dips, white buds.

Birds fly branches early in spring, calling trees and red cotton.

Point the city tower, provoke the south of the Yangtze River.