当我伏于桌案,书写这则短文时,一束束明媚的阳光穿过窗玻璃,一个劲儿地扎刺着我的瞳仁,使我甚感恍惚凄迷。窗外那棵扭捏作态的紫荆树,喷吐着粒粒嫩芽,一爪爪粉嘟嘟的小花,宛若酒鬼的醉眼,半开半合。春天来了,春天真的来了。那种唯有春天才有的暧昧气息,仿佛飘忽的云影,掠过了每一个角落。如果说秋天是现实主义,那么春天无疑就是地地道道的浪漫主义。现实主义堪比中年人,其步态有点儿迟缓,装扮有点儿陈旧,言行有点儿平铺直叙,但背上的行囊,却越发地鼓鼓囊囊。浪漫主义总是 When I was lying on the table, writing this essay, a beam of bright sunshine through the window glass, a stabbed my pupil, so I am very sad. Out of the window, the twisting gesture of the Bauhinia tree, spit out the granule shoots, a small claw Tonghua doodle flowers, like a drunken drunk eyes, half-open hemispheres. Spring is coming, spring is really coming. The kind of ambiguous atmosphere only spring, as if the erratic clouds, swept through every corner. If autumn is realism, spring is undoubtedly an out-of-date romanticism. Realism comparable to middle-aged, the gait a little slow, dress a bit old, words and deeds a bit straightforward, but the back of the luggage, but more and more bulging. Romanticism is always