在秋风的低吟里,我禁不住和唱:“床前明月光,疑是地上霜。举头望明月,低头思故乡。”我不知道自己为何会蓦地想起这首诗,只是心中有淡淡的惆怅。也许,我是想家了。才高八斗的诗人可以把乡愁写成一首诗,那样美的句子,可以流芳百世。但我没有绝世的才华,只是默默地吟诵着前人留下来的句子。毕竟谁都有思乡的情结呀!静默的夜里,我又忆及那座小城。那里,有和这里一样的树,一样的草,开着一样的花;不一样的是,这里没有散发着芬芳气息的家的味 In the autumn whisper, I can not help and sing: “bedtime moonlight, the suspect is frost on the ground .Looks at the moon, bow their heads home. ” I do not know why I remembered this poem, but the heart has A touch of melancholy. Maybe I am home-made. A talented poet can nostalgia written as a poem, so beautiful sentence, you can flow freely. But I have no peerless talent, but silently recite the sentences left by my predecessors. After all, no one has homesick complexion! Silent night, I recalled that town. There, there are the same trees, the same grass and the same flowers as here; not the same, there is no smell of fragrant home here