Qingming rain on the essay

In daily life or work and study, we always have less contact with the composition, composition is through the human thought consideration and language organization, through the words to express the meaning of a subject narrative method. So how do you go about writing an essay? The following is my collection of Qingming rain on the composition, for your reference and reference, I hope to help friends in need.

Qingming rain on essay 1

"Sixteen years old, sixteen years old, it's all this damn sixteen years old ah! God, you let time go back six more years, I don't have to sit here and write such a boring essay, maybe I'm on a spring trip!"

After complaining at random, I found the mp4 on the table, "Hey, 'Memories of Nanshan'!" I couldn't help but think of the little poem Xu Song made up when he was mistakenly rumored to have died, "Only Nanshan remembers the past, love is only sad on the rain of Qingming. I promise to love you today, and I am sitting alone on Mt. Songshan with my tears hanging down." I still remember that she used a pen to give me the first word of each line circled "only love Xu Song," we have the same hobby, we eat snacks together in class ...... then she was always full of smiles, at that time we were the best friends. But now in eighth grade, she is still full of smiles, but I know that she back often alone tears, for the results. How good it would be if there were no exams!

"Xu Song -" Thousand Hundred Degrees "," I seek you a thousand degrees, sunrise to late ...... "What a beautiful song, this song used to describe the childhood hide-and-seek is more than appropriate. As a child, we were carefree, without the constraints of learning, without the confusion of thought, although ignorant but more childlike. On the playground, in the courtyard, small villages, from sunrise to sunset, there is always laughter flying.

"Xu Song - 'Toast to the Wine, Not to Eat'", "Toast to the Wine, Not to Eat, What Wine Do You Eat?" At fourteen or fifteen, we would get drunk on our friends' birthdays, and at that time we seemed to think that drinking was cool, fighting was cool, and smoking was even cuter. But now grown up, learned biology, know that smoking is harmful to the body, drinking is harmful to health; learned politics, know that we have to be friendly, *** to create a harmonious society ...... now give you a toast, do you dare to drink? Life is not arrogant teenager, let that rebellious memory treasured in the mind.

"Xu Song -" gray avatar "," you gray avatar will not jump again, even a simple greeting ...... "Just started playing QQ for those two years, the first thing to do when you get home is to log on QQ, look at photos, send logs, farms and ranches, chatting ...... to play. But now the grade is high, the time seems to be even less, the first thing to do when you get home is to write homework, it is hard to finish writing homework, point to open the QQ friend bar, the eyes are not gray avatar, is the automatic reply. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on some of the most popular products and services in the world, and you'll be able to do that.

"Xu Song - "Qingming rain on"", "I wandered on earth, can not find your heaven ...... "What a sad song, I'm wandering on earth, and how can I find heaven? I think my grandmother is also in heaven. Three years ago at this time, I can still eat her dumplings, leeks and eggs filling, tender earth eggs, fresh pungent small garlic flavor, I can not forget all my life. But in the blink of an eye, Grandma, she has been in heaven for three years. Life is really too fragile. You should cherish your loved ones and friends around you, because it will be too late when you are separated from them.

......

"Xu Song - "River and Mountain are great", "River and Mountain are great, the mood is great, go outside to blow the Blow the wind ......"

Sixteen years old, great river and mountains, let the memory, like a small river flow through.

Qingming Festival rain on essay 2

Qingming Festival, the most beginning is a kind of festival, from the Zhou Dynasty, is a traditional festival in China, in the Qingming Festival, families will go to sweep the tomb trekking to mourn the dead relatives.

It seems that every year in the Qingming Festival will drift up a light rain, which is like human tears, and people **** Ming, in front of the grave silently crying. We will always go home to pay tribute to loved ones who have passed away, choose the day of the rain is small, we rushed to the grave, the countryside is not as noisy as the city, looking around just an endless field, grass and trees, there is no what forested high-rise buildings, this is the most natural place, the rain moisturized the earth, the heart of the clear and even extraordinarily comfortable, we climbed a large family on the top of a lone grave monument stood on the hill, we do not Like when you come to talk and laugh, trance have become so serious, they are deep staring at the tombstone, some burn paper, some kowtow, some are not a word. I know, this is my hometown, the grave is buried in my grandfather, but I am too strange to the environment, the people, everything here, or can say that there is not much affection for this place. I grew up living in the hustle and bustle of the city, and I don't come back very often. So once upon a time, standing in front of the tomb, I did not have much sorrow.

I helplessly sighed, have not seen a few times to see the grandfather left like that, a person in that dark hut to die, grandfather is not also very sad for their own it, the second eldest uncle, they, too, only found out the next morning. In the city of dad learned of this sad news is also non-stop rushed back, but I went to school, did not come back here, grandpa's death did not affect my life, I have not dropped a tear, so the ordinary life. A few years ago, I came back to visit the graves during the Ching Ming Festival, and Grandpa would still entertain us warmly and kindly. I remembered that when I was a child, I was scared and cried because Grandpa brought out the goat that he raised to tease me, and my father gave my photo to Grandpa. When I came here, my grandfather would always hold my photo and laugh with me, making me very embarrassed, and I couldn't break that old but strong hand. At that time, I was always very cold to the familiar grandfather, and even a little hate this "stranger".

And now, it is the Qingming rain, and no longer have his warm hospitality, ready to prepare everything waiting for us on the mountain, I can only stand in front of his lonely grave, silent, when a person really leave, only to find that he took away a lot of things that he did not know how to cherish before. Looking up at the gray sky, the rain dampened my eyes, dampened the overgrown hills, dampened the stone monument in front of the tomb, grandpa must be very happy in heaven, I can only wander in the can see, but can not find that heaven.

Rain, brought endless sadness, rain, everything is only because of the reluctance to give up, the rain along with the Qingming, sent too many emotions, too much thought. In this drizzly Qingming, I have grown up and experienced a different kind of grief.

The rain on Qingming Festival Essay 3

The rain on Qingming Festival has been, and the pedestrians on the road want to break their souls. Broken souls, broken souls, returning from the tomb sweeping, I am afraid that this soul is still left on the deserted graveyard.

This year's Qingming weather is very good, only a slight cool wind interwoven into a fine and dense network, face to face in the face, a fresh through the bones of the grass, soil incense, and can not identify the smell of flowers into the nostrils. As a rule, I went to the cemetery with my family to pay respect to our ancestors. Probably some years old, these old and new graves, like a silent old man, looking at each other from afar, will give birth to a kind of indescribable awe and affection. The hillside is full of rapeseed flowers, bright eye-shattering, very beautiful. The first time I saw this, I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night. Grandpa took dad, with a hoe, shoveled away the weeds on the grave, turned out a layer of new soil. Uncle set up green dumplings and eggs in front of the grave. He also set up a few wine glasses and poured wine. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do that, but I'm going to be able to do it, and I'm going to be able to do it.

I don't recognize the characters that lie beneath the soil, and I have almost no memory of my grandparents from more than three generations ago, let alone any thoughts of them or their grief. But now, standing in front of their graves, there is a kind of melancholy in my heart that I don't know where to start. There is an old tree beside me, the bark seems to be as solid as a rock, mottled. What is more surprising is that there is a plant under the tree around the tree body to grow upward, thin branches have been connected with the old bark together, as if after several centuries of fossilization, break can not be broken down.

This is a wise tree, witnessing both the passing and the new life, witnessing the long life of the old and new replacement. My brother's excited shouts are still in my ears: "Haha, our firecrackers are the loudest!" My mind flew away to nowhere. Suddenly have a very old feeling, as if living a long time.

Mayflies are born in the morning and die in the evening, and fleeting flowers have had their most beautiful moments, and a person's life is just a snap of the fingers for the eternity of all things. Who can think of the next second of this world, whether it is still as beautiful as now, or, whether we still have the next second. The sun turns to the stars, a drop in the ocean, a thousand thoughts. I wonder how many other me, at this moment, will be in a certain part of the universe, pondering the same question. Or if there is another person in the long history, also under this tree, palms touching the place I am touching now. Close my eyes and I can sense you. People are marvelous creatures, I've always believed. The passage of time and space, the return, is but a cycle and arrival over and over again, and it is in this way that our hearts, our lives, can go on and on. So, is death just a brief end, and should we all be enjoying it to the fullest.

The letter says: Love each day as if it were the end, and every second is so beautiful that tears fall.

Perhaps the true meaning of this I can never understand.

After sweeping the tomb we went home, the life of a book, or a page turned over, how the ending who do not know, the pen is still in my own hands. The next Qingming, the next next Qingming, and how many fireworks will disappear, hair white buried.

White paper money hanging in the grave, floating with the wind, swinging up the pedestrians lovesick tears, swinging open how many heroic young heart.

The village roadside, a cottonwood. How many years I have countless times from its side walked by, but never pay attention to look forward to its majestic and tall. Ching Ming Festival, I walked through the foot of the tree, it fell flowers by chance to interrupt my footsteps hurriedly, so that I suddenly remembered, around the existence of such a dynamic life.

So, that day, I finally stopped for it, in the fuzzy rain in deep thought.

How many years of change, how many years of baptism of the wind and frost, has long been in the huge trunk of its drive left on the lofty years. Roots of the point of moss, branches on the fuzzy vine, the rain in the long-lasting new shadow, it tells, even if the mountains fall over water, it is still faithful to the eternal promise of this piece of land.

The flowers bloomed in April, it is the burning and release of life.

I held an umbrella and quietly wandered in the rain. I saw, between the branches of the bees and butterflies shuttle, flowers on the dew crystal, the occasional birds play, vibration down the branches of a failed residual flowers, so that she completed the life of the only time to fly, return to the soil of the birth of her. I leaned over and picked up a piece of this heaven and earth carved out of the spirit of art, held in the palm of my hand, carefully examined her ordinary beauty, the beauty of the bright red. Flowers falling, is the pursuit of the wind, or the tree's parting? Kapok blossoms, it refused to mediocrity, not to seek the country, not for the lonely, only waiting for that moment of silent bloom.

The tree is great, I raised my head and looked up at it dozens of meters of tall body, an inexplicable awe will arise. At the beginning of life, it could have chosen to grow comfortably under the shelter of a dense thicket, but it is trying to reach out to the blue sky, vowing to break the dome. Perhaps it has watched the Nymphaea blooming in the distant bay, and then in the late fall, the remnants of the lotus point; perhaps it has also watched the village side of the road with few people, and now the busy traffic ...... hundreds of years of blossoming and falling, countless times the tide, the long river of history, full of frost did not 搉awful it to the primitive desire for life, and the raging wind and rain did not extinguish it! The earth's attachment. Yes, in its deep ` mind, there must be a more ancient world than our human.

History and reality, life is always staged a miracle, which reminds me of some people, the tenacity of mankind is always talking about their own unruly heart, for the desire to live, the pursuit of life, so that they have to go to the sunshine to refresh the height of life, to fight against the injustice of fate. Just like this cottonwood tree on the earth's attachment, their belief in life, unchanging. Thinking of this, I suddenly feel that life is born with spirituality, never fade, just like the world of all things rest and ****, the world of life week after week, there has never been a break.

In fact, life should have no rest, on the hair with this cottonwood, although not charming and graceful, but also can be interpreted in a variety of styles, drunken passers-by.

Rain, is still falling, in this curl of smoke and rain, I suddenly feel that heaven and earth more than a trace of ineffable beauty, because, Qingming rain, kapok blossom.

The Qingming Festival rain on the essay 5

Window through the early dawn, sunset, the clouds shake from the western mountains, want to think of you when the lotus wind slightly swinging the corner of the clothes. Hazy sunlight through the hollow wooden windows, the sun slowly rose from the West Bridge, a white cloud is free, floating around, you in the breeze under the back of the slight swing of the clothes I can no longer forget. You are my everything, all the beauty of my life, you are the sweetness I can not forget, you are the mark I can not erase.

Wood carving flowing gold, ripples of the years, seven years ago to seal the pen, because I waved the pen in this life only for you. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the day towards the end of the day, you have been gone for seven years. I don't dare to put pen to paper easily, lest the words and phrases are all drops of you, destroying my strong fortress. Every day I think of you and love you, every day I wish you hated you and complained about you. With your beautiful memories, day and night ripples, wandering in the night of tossing and turning. There is a zither in the distance, quiet and ethereal, sound urges the heavenly prison, trickling heart to say to themselves. The sound of your zither penetrated my life, he seems to have the power to take in the soul, beautiful music makes me even more lonesome, because the sound is fading away, you also disappeared from my sight. Only left the sound of the aftermath of the light sound, the grass slightly shaking, a sound sung out of my teardrops, I said sentence by sentence about your love for you, for your reluctance to give up, just you, can no longer be heard. If there is an afterlife, I will definitely hold your hand tightly and will not let you go easily. If there is an afterlife, I will definitely follow you closely, will not easily let you turn your head.

The shadow of the moon, smoke and fire a few candle red, red dust old dream dream broken into empty. Another time the moon is full night, and a few rouge red, if there is a chance, you are in that clear and bright moon shadow, quietly gazing at the lonely me, whether it is also difficult to swallow tears, whether it is also thinking about our old promises, whether it is also in pity for our difficult to continue the marriage. If there is a love companion, this life and thoughts as a couple, what is the harm? If you are not accompanied by a single person to look at the broken autumn moon, away from the time between others. Rain wet eyes, leaning on the well year after year, hoping to return to the hall, the most afraid of not realizing that the tears have been split two lines. When all the memories of you have turned into tears, I am still standing in the same place where you left. If my waiting can bring you back, I'd rather give up everything and start all over again. If heaven is where you want to be, can I be your wings to fly. If leaving is the choice you must make, can I not be left alone to live in this world in sorrow? Tears, drop by drop, year by year, year by year, year by year, year by year, year by year, year by year, year by year, year by year. I am wandering on earth, can not find the paradise you want, east bottle west mirror put hate can not be forgotten. You are the existence of my life, remember the day you left, looking at your pale face, I can no longer say a word. I can't get to the place where you want to go, and the place where I live is no longer the paradise you want. Can I not be brave, can I forget my love for you. After such a long time, I still can't defeat myself. It's the Qingming rain again, folding chrysanthemums and sending them to you, singing your favorite song softly. The rain is drizzling, the apricot blossom rain village, holding a handful of chrysanthemums, with another year's love, pacing, stopping, gazing, singing softly. Your teardrops, is I can not touch the wound, do not cry, no I am beside you, who can give you shoulders to rely on.

Your sorrow is that I can not listen to the injury, do not cry, I am not beside you, who can still be like me to you softly sung: window through the early dawn sunset West Bridge clouds from the shake want you to think of the year and the wind slightly swinging the corner of the coat