理想中的圆明园旅行英语作文400字
For the last week of three concutive late autumns, I was in Beijing. In the capital of late autumn, the red leaves of Fragrant Hills are like fire, the Summer Palace is full of clear waves, and Chang'an Street is brightly lit at night, and Wangfujing Commercial Street is full of people. The capital has been prosperous since ancient times, and now it is flourishing again, and it is common n for guests to gather. I am an exception. Every late autumn, I go to the ruins of Yuanmingyuan for a walk with my head bowed and walking alone.
There were withered and yellow broken leaves under my feet. When I stepped on it, it made a "chacha" sound. When my feet were raid, the sound was different. I emed to hear a sigh. The voice was soft, but clearly audible. I stopped and listened carefully, but the sound disappeared without a trace. Simply bent down, picked up a leaf, and carefully obrved its lines. This is a golden-yellow ginkgo leaf that has fallen prematurely, becau most of the ginkgo leaves have turned golden, but they have not fallen, and still reflect the dazzling golden light in the autumn sun. I put the leaf upside down in the palm of my hand, t
he lines behind the leaf are clearly visible, all the stripes start from the petiole and go straight to the edge of the leaf like rays. This kind of leaf is not like the phoenix tree and willow, there is a clear main vein in the middle from root to tip, running through.
I bowed my head again, and from the gap where I picked up the blade, I saw a piece of remnant tile dangling obliquely in the soil. He handed the blade to his left hand, and with his right hand, he pulled the tile out of the soil with force. Suddenly, he felt a little familiar. After thinking about it carefully, he laughed. It turned out that this piece of remnant tile was very similar to the ginkgo leaf in his left hand.
Something emed to fall on the top of the head, throw away the tiles and ginkgo leaves, and mold them on the head, and it turned out to be another ginkgo leaf. Looking up, I saw a towering ginkgo tree standing there stalwartly. The autumn wind blew off some leaves, and some remained on the trees. There was still some green on the top of the sunny treetops.
I asked mylf, if history is a big tree, are the broken tiles that were just thrown away, the
leaves that it has shaken off in the long river of time? The leaves fade in spring and autumn every year, but what about the red walls and green tiles on the pavilions and pavilions in history? Will it be reborn after falling into the dust?
The tiles under your feet are not necessarily the old relics from the glory days of Yuanmingyuan. After the two deaths, Yuanmingyuan has suffered countless ravages and has long since changed beyond recognition. During the protective rescue, veral villages were relocated from here as a whole, and the tiles are not necessarily the relics on the roofs of ordinary people. I think of Liang Sicheng and his unremitting efforts and endless regrets to protect the ancient buildings of old Beijing. Today's capital is full of high-ri buildings, but it has lost the charm of the past. The old alleys and courtyards are disappearing quietly, although there is no British-French coalition to ignite the fire of evil again.
I looked back, and on the ridge of the main hall of Zhengjue Temple in the backlight, the glazed tiles flickered with golden light. His eyes flashed, as if a blue light flashed in front of him.
