Sorry to say, you are the first person here on Italki to stump me in trying to correct your essay.  First of all, I don't know if you are writing in a poetic form or in prose.  Secondly, I simply do not understand what you are trying to say.  If you can provide me the original in Chinese, I may able to help you.

Autumn Night

Blinking in dismay, the sky becomes bluer and bluer, more and more uneasy, as if eager to escape from the world of men and avoid the date trees, leaving the moon behind. But the moon, too, is hiding itself in the east; while, silent still and as rigid as iron, the bare boughs pierce the strange, high sky, resolved to inflict on it a mortal wound, no matter in how many ways it winks all its bewitching eyes.
　　With a shriek, a fierce night-bird passes.
　　All of a sudden, I hear midnight laughter. The sound is muffled, as if not to wake those who sleep; yet all around the air resounds to this laughter. Midnight, and no one else is by. At once I realize it is I who am laughing, and at once I am driven by this laughter back to my room. At once I turn up the wick of my paraffin lamp.
　　A pit-a-pat sounds from the glass of the back window, where swarms of insects are recklessly dashing themselves against the pane. Presently some get in, no doubt through a hole in the window paper. Once in, they set up another pit-a-pat by dashing themselves against the chimney of the lamp. One hurls itself into the chimney from the top, falling into the flame, and I fancy the flame is real. shade two or three others rest, panting. The shade is a new one since last night. Its snow white paper is pleated in wave-like folds, and painted in one corner is a spray of blood-red gardenias.
　　When the blood-red gardenias blossom, the date trees, weighed down with bright foliage, will dream once more the dream of the little pink flowers and I shall hear the midnight laughter again. I hastily break off this train of thought to look at the small green insects still on the paper. Like sunflower seeds with their large heads and small tails, they are only half the size of a grain of wheat, the whole of them an adorable, pathetic green.
　　I yawn, light a cigarette, and puff out the smoke, paying silent homage before the lamp to these green and exquisite heroes.
　　September 15, 1924.