Looking for a recitable poem or prose that is appropriate for the age of the first year of junior hi

The first year of junior high school can just be a little bit independent, which is better.

I like to take the train, I like to go south or north one stop at a time, and I like me in the middle of the journey.

Just because, in the middle of the journey, I can belong to no beginning or to the end, not to any place or to anyone, in this single moment, I just need to belong to myself.

All the obligations that should be fulfilled, all the responsibilities that should be carried, all the things that should be fought for or conceded to, all the bonds of the world are separated at both ends of the tracks, and I, in the carriage, have nothing to desire. At that moment, the only thing I had to do and the only thing I could do was to sit quietly by the window and exchange things outside the window.

Outside the window, the scenery was constantly changing, the mountains and river valleys stretched by, and I saw that in the groves of trees, each tree grew thin and long, and they used all tactful methods to grow in order to win the sun. Walking through a large rice field, in the middle of the field, I also saw a lonely tree, because of loneliness, so it can stretch its branches and leaves arbitrarily, and it looks like a big, thick and round umbrella.

In real life, I know that I should learn to be accommodating and tolerant, just like the trees in the forest. However, in the field of the soul, please let me grow into a tree that is widely exposed to the sun.

I also knew that before that, I had to learn to be independent, to learn not to seek attachment from anyone, in the deepest part of my soul.

Excerpt from "Xi Murong's Poems".

"Homesickness" in the afterglow. Short and easy to read.

Farewell Cambridge. Gently I go, as softly I come;

I beckoned softly, Farewell to the clouds of the western sky.

The golden willow on the bank of the river is the bride in the sunset.

The shadows in the sparkling waves ripple in my heart.

The green wattles on the soft mud, the oily ones swagger at the bottom of the water;

In the soft waves of the River Cam, I am willing to be a water weed.

A pool under the shade of the tree is not a clear spring, but a rainbow from the sky.

Crushed among the floating algae, precipitated rainbow-like dreams.

Looking for a dream? Hold a penny, wander to the greener grass, full of a boatload of starlight, and sing in the starlight.

But I can't play songs, quietly is a parting sheng flute;

The summer worm is also silent for me, Silence is Kangqiao tonight!

Quietly I went, as quietly I came;

I waved my sleeves and didn't take away a cloud.

Believe in the future. The index finger was a cobweb, mercilessly seizing my hearth.

When the smoke of ashes sighs the sorrow of poverty.

I still stubbornly lay out the ashes of disappointment.

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.

I'm going to use my fingers on the waves that rush to the horizon.

I will hold the sea of the sun with the palm of my hand.

Swaying the warm and beautiful pen of the dawn.

Write in a child's pen: 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.

She has the pupils to see through the pages of time.

Regardless of people's perception of our rotten flesh.

The melancholy of being lost, the pain of failure.

It is a tearful feeling of emotion and 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 will definitely give an enthusiastic, objective and fair evaluation.

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.

Variations of the Stars" by Jiang He.

If every corner of the earth was filled with light.

Who needs stars, who will.

Gaze at night.

Look for distant comfort.

Who doesn't. Every day is a poem.

Every word is a star.

Like a bee fluttering in the heart.

Who doesn't want to have a soft evening.

Soft as a lake.

Fireflies and stars swim among the water lily bushes.

Who doesn't love spring, when birds fall all over the branches.

Like stars falling all over the sky.

A twinkling sound floated from afar.

Clusters of white lilacs are hazy.

If every corner of the earth was filled with light.

Who needs stars, who will.

Burning lonely in the cold.

Seek a little bit of hope.

Who wants to be year after year.

Always write poems of suffering.

Each one is a group of trembling stars.

Like ice and snow covering my heart.

Who wants to watch the night freeze.

Stiff as a piece of land.

The wind blows down one skinny star after another.

Who doesn't like fluttering flags, loves fire.

Golden stars welled up.

When the stars in the sky are tired - rise.

Go and shine where the sun can't.

Youthful flying.

Youth is the best time in life.

Youth is the most precious time in life.

Youth is full of youthful frivolity.

Full of infinite life.

Full of beauty and confidence.

The pace of youth does not stop because of difficulties.

The melody of youth will not be hindered by wind and rain.

Youth is sunshine and a sign of self-confidence.

Youth is the representative of moonshine and elegance.

Youth is the starlight and the pioneer who leads the fashion.

Let's raise the corners of youth.

Set sail.

Let life fly here.

Let youth set sail here.

Two recommendations.

Believe not. The spider web of the index finger is seized.

The ashes of my hearth sigh the poverty.

Sad for me. Stubbornness paves out disappointment.

Ashes with beauty.

Xuehua wrote: Believe not.

I'm purple grapes.

Late autumn dew. I snuggle up with flowers and say goodbye.

I'm stubborn. Written in frost and desolation.

Believe not. I'm going to rush to the side with my fingers.

I want to use the palm of my hand to make waves.

Hold up the sun. The sea swayed with the dawn.

The branches are warm and beautiful.

The pen barrel is used by children. The pen writes: I believe that I am not so.

Firmly believe in the not.

I believe that the eyes are not dialed.

Historical dust. The eyelashes see through the pupil tube of the years.

Rotten to me. The flesh is lost.

Melancholy, failure.

Pain. Tears and deep sympathy give.

Contemptuous smile, spicy.

Mockery I firmly believe.

on my spine. Exploration, Lost, and Failure.

Give enthusiasm, objectivity, and fairness.

I was anxious.

Waiting for the assessment.

Friends are firm. Believe it, believe it, and believe it.

Scratch hard to believe in the victory over death.

Light belief in the future, hot life.

Star Variations" by Jiang Hemei.

The corners are full of light who.

Need stars who night.

Gaze in search of distant comforts to whom.

Willing to write a poem for each.

Every word has a star like a bee trembling whom.

Willing to be soft late soft.

Like a lake of fireflies and stars.

Water lily bush swimming. Who loves spring.

Birds fall full of branches. Like the stars falling.

The sky flickered and the sound was far away.

Clusters of white lilacs are hazy.

Every corner is full of light.

Need stars who are cold.

Loneliness burns. Seek the stars.

Hopefully who will.

Always write poems of suffering.

The capital hordes trembled.

The stars are covered like snow and ice.

Who wants to watch the night freeze stiff like it.

The wind blows off the skinny.

stars who like to fly flags.

Love the fire. Golden stars.

The stars are tired. Wait - rise.

Shine on the sun.

How long is it going to take? Check out the poems of the famous poet Love, a Nobel Prize nominee for literature.

Slightly longer: "Searching", "Reading Du Fu in the Car".

Relatively long: "Back to the Sea", "Lament of the Ape".

Super long: "Blood Reprint".

It's a long, long one: "Driftwood."

As we spoke, we arrived at Lok Ma Chau.

The fog was rising, and we looked around in a daze.

The palms of the hands began to sweat.

The nostalgia in the glasses is expanded dozens of times.

Chaos is like the wind in the wind.

When the distance is adjusted to a heart-pounding degree.

A distant mountain flew in front of you.

Knocked me in.

Severe internal injuries.

Sick, sick, sick as the withered cuckoo on the hillside.

Only the only one remains.

Squatting behind the "No Crossing the Line" sign.

Hemoptysis. And at this time.

An egret startled from a paddy field.

flew over Shenzhen and suddenly turned back.

And at this time, the partridge made a sound of fire.

The sound of smoke.

A sentence penetrates the spring cold of March in a different place.

My eyes were burned to the ground, and my blood was full of blood.

After your sting is the equinox.

The Qingming season is not far away.

I actually understood the local accent of Guangdong.

When the rain turns the earth recklessly.

Translated into cyan language.

Here! You said, Futian Village is Shui Wai further on.

The soil of the homeland is within reach.

But what I caught back was still a cold and hidden mist.

Panasonic has no children to ask.

In fact, no one knows what's on the other side of the cloud.

Mountaineering is not a pleasure.

Sweat wiping is also only done before the wind comes.

and weak legs, which proves that the peak is far from heaven.

Still far away. There was a light mist like smoke on it.

It seems to be quite like the poems of the Wei, Jin, Southern and Northern Dynasties.

As for the temple bells. When it reached my ears, it was already a thousand years later.

Therefore, if you look at the mountains in Tao Yuanming's way.

It will not sweat and wet the green shirt, and pant like a cow.

But I had to climb.

Just to search for that sound.

It shocks me and moves me.

The chirping of cicadas in the empty mountains.

That's the best.

I looked back and shouted loudly down the mountain.

I finally found it.

A gray one.

file or cicada.

For the time being, I will recommend the work of such a poet, and if it is not suitable or disliked, we will discuss it and recommend it to you again. Thousands of poems are up to you, and hundreds of famous artists are up to you.