The artistic conception is beautiful, the text is like a short essay, the prose must be beautiful in artistic conception.

An article like this The sun rose and the apricot moon did not stop. It was as if there were beautiful flowers falling from the distant mountains and near the water. It was mid-spring. The farmer's wife by the field bent down, and the young man in the mountains raised his head. The leaves rustled in the wind, and the insects and snakes moved. All things were waiting for a clap of thunder. Heaven and earth reopened, and she came on the moon. In the depths of the moon, the cranes contended. Who sang the first spring song? Among the clouds, which one was the first to call for revival? The flowers were scattered like rain, but the flower basket in her hand was always full. If the flower basket was not empty, then whose past was it? She passed through the steamy Jiangnan, the fertile Central Plains, and the desolate desert. How many women's limestone roads under the window drifted past her leisurely clothes, how many scholars 'ink paintings in front of their desks flashed past her gentle glance--finally, she also passed by her hometown that she could never return to. She was once a flower, she was once a green plum, she was once a stranger in the world of mortals. However, when the ink of calamity was sprinkled and the splendor of spring was erased, what reason did the chosen messenger of fate have to crave the warmth of the world? In order to seek longevity, Chang'e flew into the sky; she ascended to immortality, but only for the sake of year after year, the mountain flowers were as brilliant as one. The mother at the edge of the field bent down, unable to say her name; The little brother in the mountains looked up, forgetting her face; The leaves were silent, and the insects and snakes were silent. The joys and sorrows of the world had nothing to do with her anymore. Perhaps the God of Spring was destined to only exist in the legends of spring. The sonnets of shakespeare, with the light beat of drums, the unique splendor of poetry in the 17th century, flew to an eastern night. With whom to dance, with whom to spend the night? With the gentleness of Yuan Qu, with the words that stayed between the leaves of the leaf, with the graceful flying in the flowing light of the lake… At the moment when you rode back on the white deer, all the windows of summer dreams opened just to wait for you, just for the stars to bloom. When the duckweed held up the umbrella of summer, all the colors of summer bloomed. The drums of the stars by the lake, knock open- The prosperity of each tree, the stars of each tree, the emptiness and yearning of each tree. I don't want novels