Poems about Teacher's Day Ancient poems are written in this way to praise teachers

September 10, 2017 is the 33rd Teachers' Day in my country. Respecting teachers and valuing education is a fine tradition in China. As early as the Western Zhou Dynasty in the 11th century BC, it was proposed that "disciples should serve their teachers with the same respect as they would their fathers." Next, let us appreciate the poems written by ancient people praising teachers.

A collection of poems about praising teachers

Tang Dynasty

"Master Yuan" by Bai Juyi of the Tang Dynasty Bai Shuzi of the Eastern Palace and Master Yuan of the Southern Temple.
Where can we meet from afar, when my mind is free of worries.

"Reply to the Teacher" by Liu Shang of the Tang Dynasty The void has no place, just like colored glaze.
Who has ever reached the poetic realm? The Zen mind transcends poetry.

"Happy Rain on a Spring Night" by Du Fu of the Tang Dynasty "Good rain knows when to fall, and it happens in spring."
It sneaks into the night with the wind, moistening everything silently.
The wild paths and the clouds are all dark; only the fire on the river boat is bright.
In the morning, I see the red wet area and the heavy flowers in the Jinguan City.

"Planting Flowers in Green Field Hall in Response to Lord Ling" by Bai Juyi of the Tang Dynasty The Green Field Hall is in full bloom, and passers-by point to Lord Ling's home.
Your Excellency's students are all over the world, so why should he plant more flowers in front of his hall?

"Searching for the Retreat of Master Yong" by Li Bai of the Tang Dynasty The green peaks reach the sky, and I am so free that I don’t remember the years.
Part the clouds to find the ancient path, lean against the tree to listen to the flowing spring.
The green ox lies under the warm flowers, and the white crane sleeps under the tall pines.
As I speak, the river becomes dark and I am alone in the cold smoke.

"Untitled: It's hard to meet, and it's also hard to part" by Li Shangyin of the Tang Dynasty It's hard to meet, and it's also hard to part, the east wind is weak and the flowers are withered.
The silkworm will not stop spinning silk until it dies, and the wax torch will not stop shedding tears until it turns into ashes.
When I look in the mirror in the morning, I worry about my graying hair; when I recite poems at night, I feel the moonlight is cold.
There are not many roads to Penglai, and the blue bird is eager to visit.