Chapter 11 autumn song

autumn song 1 In the misty and ripe autumn, You made friends with the mature sun; You conspired with the many balls, Grape vines under the eaves of the thatched house; Make the old tree in front of the house laden with apples, Let the ripe taste penetrate into the heart of the fruit, Swelled the gourd, bulged the hazelnut shell, for stuffing sweet kernels; and for the bees Flowers that bloom too late again and again, make them think that the days will be warm forever, Because their sticky nests are filled early in summer. 2 Who doesn't often see you by the barn? I can find you in the fields,

Mi sometimes sits casually on the threshing floor, Let the hair flutter with the wind of the winnowing valley; Sometimes, intoxicated by the scent of poppies, You lie down on the half-harvested furrow, Let the sickle rest by the next bed of flowers; or.Like a gleaner crossing a brook, You hold your head high and carry your grain sack, casting your reflection, Or just sit under the fruit rack for a few hours, You patiently watch the wine dripping slowly. 3 what.Where did Haruhi's song go?but don't Think about it, you have your music too— When wavy clouds reflect the passing day,

Smear the stubbled fields with rouge, At this time, a group of small flying insects under the river willow And with the lamentation they suddenly soared high, Falling suddenly, rising and falling with the breeze; The crickets in the hedge are singing, in the garden The red-breasted robins whistled; And the sheep bleat loudly and silently in the pen; Cong Fei's swallows whispered in the sky. (translated by Cha Liangzheng) To Autumn by John Keats J. 1 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 2 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granular floor, Thy hair sort-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Dows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers. And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watch the last oozings hours by hours. 3 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a waiful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles form a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.