英语唯美散文

英语唯美散文（精选13篇）

　　在平日的学习、工作和生活里，大家一定都接触过散文吧？散文是抒发作文真情实感，写作方式灵活的记叙类文学体裁。那么，你知道一篇好的散文要怎么写吗？以下是小编帮大家整理的英语唯美散文，仅供参考，欢迎大家阅读。

　　英语唯美散文 篇1

　　I think that, from a biological standpoint, human life almost reads like a poem.

　　It has its own rhythm and beat, its internal cycles of growth and decay.

　　It begins with innocent childhood, followed by awkward adolescence trying awkwardly to adapt itself to mature society, with its young passions and follies, its ideals and ambitions;

　　then it reaches a manhood of intense activities, profiting from experience and learning more about society and human nature; at middle age, there is a slight easing of tension, a mellowing of character like the ripening of fruit or the mellowing of good wine,

　　and the gradual acquiring of a more tolerant, more cynical and at the same time a kindlier view of life; then In the sunset of our life, the endocrine glands decrease their activity, and if we have a true philosophy of old age and have ordered our life pattern according to it,

　　it is for us the age of peace and security and leisure and contentment; finally, life flickers out and one goes into eternal sleep, never to wake up again.

　　One should be able to sense the beauty of this rhythm of life, to appreciate, as we do in grand symphonies, its main theme, its strains of conflict and the final resolution.

　　The movements of these cycles are very much the same in a normal life, but the music must be provided by the individual himself.

　　In some souls, the discordant note becomes harsher and harsher and finally overwhelms or submerges the main melody.

　　Sometimes the discordant note gains so much power that the music can no longer go on, and the individual shoots himself with a pistol or jump into a river.

　　But that is because his original leitmotif has been hopelessly over-showed through the lack of a good self-education.

　　Otherwise the normal human life runs to its normal end in kind of dignified movement and procession.

　　There are sometimes in many of us too many staccatos or impetuosos, and because the tempo is wrong, the music is not pleasing to the ear; we might have more of the grand rhythm and majestic tempo o the Ganges, flowing slowly and eternally into the sea.

　　No one can say that life with childhood, manhood and old age is not a beautiful arrangement; the day has its morning, noon and sunset, and the year has its seasons, and it is good that it is so.

　　There is no good or bad in life, except what is good according to its own season.

　　And if we take this biological view of life and try to live according to the seasons, no one but a conceited fool or an impossible idealist can deny that human life can be lived like a poem.

　　Shakespeare has expressed this idea more graphically in his passage about the seven stages of life, and a good many Chinese writers have said about the same thing.

　　It is curious that Shakespeare was never very religious, or very much concerned with religion.

　　I think this was his greatness; he took human life largely as it was, and intruded himself as little upon the general scheme of things as he did upon the characters of his plays.

　　Shakespeare was like Nature itself, and that is the greatest compliment we can pay to a writer or thinker.

　　He merely lived, observed life and went away.

　　我以为，从生物学角度看，人的一生恰如诗歌。

　　人生自有其韵律和节奏，自有内在的生成与衰亡。

　　人生始于无邪的童年，经过少年的青涩，带着激情与无知，理想与雄心，笨拙而努力地走向成熟;后来人到壮年，经历渐广，阅人渐多，涉世渐深，收益也渐大;及至中年，

　　人生的紧张得以舒缓，人的性格日渐成熟，如芳馥之果实，如醇美之佳酿，更具容忍之心，处世虽更悲观，但对人生的态度趋于和善;再后来就是人生迟暮，内分泌系统活动减少，若此时吾辈已经悟得老年真谛，

　　并据此安排残年，那生活将和平，宁静，安详而知足;终于，生命之烛摇曳而终熄灭，人开始永恒的长眠，不再醒来。

　　人们当学会感受生命韵律之美，像听交响乐一样，欣赏其主旋律、激昂的高潮和舒缓的尾声。

　　这些反复的乐章对于我们的生命都大同小异，但个人的乐曲却要自己去谱写。

　　在某些人心中，不和谐音会越来越刺耳，最终竟然能掩盖主曲;有时不和谐音会积蓄巨大的能量，令乐曲不能继续，这时人们或举枪自杀或投河自尽。

　　这是他最初的主题被无望地遮蔽，只因他缺少自我教育。

　　否则，常人将以体面的运动和进程走向既定的终点。

　　在我们多数人胸中常常会有太多的断奏或强音，那是因为节奏错了，生命的乐曲因此而不再悦耳。

　　我们应该如恒河，学她气势恢弘而豪迈地缓缓流向大海。

　　人生有童年、少年和老年，谁也不能否认这是一种美好的安排，一天要有清晨、正午和日落，一年要有四季之分，如此才好。

　　人生本无好坏之分，只是各个季节有各自的好处。

　　如若我们持此种生物学的观点，并循着季节去生活，除了狂妄自大的傻瓜和无可救药的理想主义者，谁能说人生不能像诗一般度过呢。

　　莎翁在他的一段话中形象地阐述了人生分七个阶段的观点，很多中国作家也说过类似的话。

　　奇怪的是，莎士比亚并不是虔诚的宗教徒，也不怎么关心宗教。

　　我想这正是他的伟大之处，他对人生秉着顺其自然的态度，他对生活之事的干涉和改动很少，正如他对戏剧人物那样。

　　莎翁就像自然一样，这是我们能给作家或思想家的最高褒奖。

　　对人生，他只是一路经历着，观察着，离我们远去了。

　　英语唯美散文 篇2

　　I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time.

　　To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating.

　　I love to be alone.

　　I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.

　　We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers.

　　A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will.

　　Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.

　　The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervish in the desert.

　　The farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can :see the folks,:” and recreate, and, as he thinks, remunerate himself for his day’s solitude; and hence he wonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui and :the blues:; but he does not realize that the student, though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it.

　　Society is commonly too cheap.

　　We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other.

　　We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are.

　　We have had to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war.

　　We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other’s way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one another.

　　Certainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty communications.

　　Consider the girls in a factory---never alone, hardly in their dreams.

　　It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live.

　　The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.

　　I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning, when nobody calls.

　　Let me suggest a few comparisons, that some one may convey an idea of my situation.

　　I am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond itself.

　　What company has that lonely lake, I pray?

　　And yet it has not the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the azure tint of its waters.

　　The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun.

　　god is alone---but the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal of company; he is legion.

　　I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumblebee.

　　I am no more lonely than the Millbrook, or a weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.

　　我发现人若大部分时间用于独处，将有益身心。

　　与人为伴，即使是挚友，也很快会有厌烦或虚度光阴的感觉。

　　我爱独处，我发现没有比独处更好的伴侣了。

　　出国，身在熙攘人群中，要比退守陋室更让人寂寞。

　　心有所想，身有所系的人总是孤身一人，不论他身处何地。

　　独处与否也不是由人与人之间的距离来确定。

　　在剑桥苦读的学子虽身处蜂巢般拥挤的教室，实际上却和沙漠中的苦行僧一样，是在独处。

　　家人终日耕于田间，伐于山野，此时他虽孤单但并不寂寞，因他专心于工作;但待到他日暮而息，却未必能忍受形影相吊，空有思绪做伴的时光，他必到“可以看见大伙儿”的去处去找乐子，如他所认为的那样以补偿白日里的孤独;因此他无法理解学子如何能竟夜终日独坐而不心生厌倦或倍感凄凉;然而他没意识到，学子虽身在学堂，但心系劳作，但是耕于心田，伐于学林，这正和农人一样，学子在寻求的无非是和他一样的快乐与陪伴，只是形式更简洁罢了。

　　与人交往通常都因唾手可得而毫无价值，在频繁的相处中，我们无暇从彼此获取新价值。

　　我们每日三餐相聚，反复让彼此重新审视的也是依旧故我，并无新奇之处。

　　为此我们要循规蹈矩，称其为懂礼仪，讲礼貌，以便在这些频繁的接触中相安无事，无须论战而有辱斯文。

　　我们相遇在邮局，邂逅在社交场所，围坐在夜晚的炉火旁，交情甚笃，彼此干扰着，纠缠着;实际上我认为这样我们都或多或少失去了对彼此的尊重。

　　对于所有重要的倾心交流，相见不必过频。

　　想想工厂里的女孩，她们虽从不落单，但也少有梦想。

　　像这样方圆一英里仅一人居住，那情况会更好。

　　人的价值非在肌肤相亲，而在心有灵犀。

　　我的房子里有很多伙伴，尤其在无人造访的清晨。

　　我把自己和周围事物对比一下，你或许能窥见我生活的一斑。

　　比起那湖中长笑的潜鸟，还有那湖，我并不比它们孤独多少。

　　你看：这孤单的湖又何以为伴呢?然而它那一湾天蓝的湖水里有的却是天使的纯净，而非魔鬼的忧郁。

　　太阳是孤独的，虽然时而在阴郁的天气里会出现两个太阳，但其中之一为幻日;上帝是孤独的 – 魔鬼才从不孤单，他永远不乏伙伴，因从他都甚众。

　　比起牧场上的一朵毛蕊花，一支蒲公英，一片豆叶，一束酢浆草，一只牛虻或大黄蜂来，我并不孤单多少;比想密尔溪，风标，北极星，南风，四月春雨，正月融雪，或者新房中的第一只蜘蛛，我也并不更加孤单。

　　英语唯美散文 篇3

　　Have you thought about what you want people to say about you after you’re gone? Can you hear the voice saying, “He was a great man.

　　” Or “She really will be missed.

　　” What else do they say?

　　One of the strangest phenomena of life is to engage in a work that will last long after death.

　　Isn’t that a lot like investing all your money so that future generations can bare interest on it? Perhaps, yet if you look deep in your own heart, you’ll find something drives you to make this kind of contribution---something drives every human being to find a purpose that lives on after death.

　　Do you hope to memorialize your name? Have a name that is whispered with reverent awe? Do you hope to have your face carved upon 50 ft of granite rock? Is the answer really that simple? Is the purpose of lifetime contribution an ego-driven desire for a mortal being to have an immortal name or is it something more?

　　A child alive today will die tomorrow.

　　A baby that had the potential to be the next Einstein will die from complication is at birth.

　　The circumstances of life are not set in stone.

　　We are not all meant to live life through to old age.

　　We’ve grown to perceive life3 as a full cycle with a certain number of years in between.

　　If all of those years aren’t lived out, it’s a tragedy.

　　A tragedy because a human’s potential was never realized.

　　A tragedy because a spark was snuffed out before it ever became a flame.

　　By virtue of inhabiting a body we accept these risks.

　　We expose our mortal flesh to the laws of the physical environment around us.

　　The trade off isn’t so bad when you think about it.

　　The problem comes when we construct mortal fantasies of what life should be like.

　　When life doesn’t conform to our fantasy we grow upset, frustrated, or depressed.

　　We are alive; let us live.

　　We have the ability to experience; let us experience.

　　We have the ability to learn; let us learn.

　　The meaning of life can be grasped in a moment.

　　A moment so brief it often evades our perception.

　　What meaning stands behind the dramatic unfolding of life? What single truth can we grasp and hang onto for dear life when all other truths around us seem to fade with time?

　　These moments are strung together in a series we call events.

　　These events are strung together in a series we call life.

　　When we seize the moment and bend it according to our will, a will driven by the spirit deep inside us, then we have discovered the meaning of life, a meaning for us that shall go on long after we depart this Earth.

　　你有没有想过，你希望人们在你死后怎样评论你?你能否听到这样的说，“他是个伟大的人”或“人们的确会怀念她”，他们还会说些什么?

　　人生最奇异的现象之一就是，你从事的事业在你死后仍将长久存在。

　　这和你用所的钱进行投资以便后人能从中获益不是如出一辙吗?也许，如果你审视自己的内心深处，你就会发现促使你做出这种贡献的驱动力-一种驱使每个人寻找在自己死后仍能继续存在的事业的驱动力。

　　你希望自己的名字被人记住吗?你希望别人提起你的名字时心怀敬畏吗?你希望自己的面容被雕刻在50英尺高的花岗岩上吗?答案真的那么简单吗?贡献一生的目的难道终将一死之人想要获得不朽名声的自我鞭策的欲望?抑或是其他更伟大的事物?

　　今天活着的孩子明天就会死去。

　　一个有可能成为下一个爱因斯坦的婴儿会死于出生并发症。

　　生命的情形并不是固定不变的。

　　我们并没有注定都要活到老年。

　　我们已经认识到，生命是一个周期，其时间长度是特定的。

　　如果这些时间没有被充分利用，那就是个悲剧，因为人的潜能还未实现，因为火花还没形成火焰就被补灭。

　　由于存在于肉体之中，所以我们接受这些风险。

　　我们使易朽的肉体服从周围物理环境的法则。

　　你仔细想一想就会发现，这种交易并不是那么糟糕。

　　当我们幻想生命应该如何时，问题就来了。

　　当生命和我们的幻想不一致时，我们就变得烦恼，无奈或沮丧。

　　我们活着，那我们就要活得精彩;我们有能力体验，那我们就要体验人生甘苦;我们有能力学习，那我们就要在学海徜徉。

　　生命的意义可以在一瞬间抓住-一个经常被我们忽略的短暂瞬间。

　　当生命戏剧般地一幕幕拉开时，其中隐含的意义是什么?当我们周围所有其他都似乎随着时间而消逝时，我们能够掌握哪个真理并依靠它来生活呢?

　　这些瞬间串联在一起，我们称之为事件。

　　这些事件串联系在一起， 我们称之为生活。

　　当我们抓住那个瞬间并按照我们的意志来改变它-这意志受到我们内心深处的精神的驱使，我们就发现了生命的意义-这意义将在我们离开地球之后长久存在。

　　英语唯美散文 篇4

　　From tramp to King of Comedy, Chaplin

　　About the year 1900, a small, dark-haired boy was often seen waiting outside the back entrances of London theatres. He looked thin and hungry but his blue eyes were determined. Despite his painfully hard childhood, the boy knew how to make people laugh. He could sing and dance and was hoping to make a living in show business.

　　When he couldn't get work the boy wandered about the city streets like a tramp. He found food and shelter wherever he could. Sometimes he was sent away to a home for children who had no parents. He was cold and miserable there and the children were scolded and punished for the slightest fault. He hated it.

　　Thirty years later he was accepting the hospitality of kings. Everyone wanted to meet him. Pictures show him in the company of men like Churchill, Einstein and Gandhi. He had become almost a royal figure in the bright new world of the cinema – Charlie Chaplin, the king of comedy.

　　Chaplin's life was a continuous adventure. In 1889, Chaplin was born in London, England to parents who both worked in theater. His father's death from drinking too much and mother's illness left him in poverty for most of his childhood. However, Chaplin didn't get lost in the poverty. In fact, he had set a goal for himself at a young age: to become the most famous person in the world.

　　When Chaplin was five years old his mother suddenly lost her voice during a performance and had to leave the stage. To help his mother, little Chaplin went on stage and sang a well-known song at that time, "Jack Jones". Halfway through the song a shower of money poured onto the stage. Chaplin stopped singing and told the audience he would pick up the money first and then finish the song. The audience laughed. This was only the first of millions of laughs in Chaplin's legendary career.

　　Lack of education did not hold Chaplin back from developing the special talent locked inside him. He took his courage and went to see one of the top theatrical agents in London. With no experience at all, he was offered the plum part of Billy – the paperboy in a new production of "Sherlock Holmes". "Sherlock Holmes" opened on July 27, 1903 at an enormous theatre. Chaplin seemed to change overnight. It was as if he had found the thing he was meant to do: to be an actor.

　　Cinema was born in the same year as Chaplin. When people still believed it was a passing fad and would never replace live shows, Chaplin was determined to master this new medium, for it would offer him the chance of money and success. Chaplin's first film, released in February 1914, was called "Making a living". The film was well received by the public but didn't satisfy Chaplin. After some disappointments and anxieties, he created his classical character -- "the little tramp". From his very first appearance, the mild little man brought laughter to people's faces. With the black moustache, wide-open eyes, round black hat and shoes too large for his feet, he makes all kinds of stupid mistakes. He is always in trouble. Yet he dreams of greatness. He makes audience laugh with his crazy attempts to escape his cruel fate. He finds surprising ways out of every difficulty and life never quite destroys him. The little tramp is not very different from the cold, homeless, poorly dressed child who refused to despair. Like the child he is weak and frightened, but he never gives up.

　　The tramp became a huge success. By the time he was thirty Chaplin was the greatest, best known, and best loved comedy actor in the world. He received thousands of dollars for each film he made and had formed his own filmmaking company. But he continued his pursuit of perfection in art. When making the film "The Immigrant", Chaplin spent four days and four nights to cut the film to the required length. He viewed each scene perhaps fifty times before he decided exactly where to cut.

　　Explaining his success, Chaplin once wrote, "You have to believe in yourself. That's the secret. Even when I was in the children's home, when I was wandering the streets trying to find enough to eat to keep alive, even then I thought of myself as the greatest actor in the world." Through hard times and glorious days he always believed in himself and never lost faith. It is through this self-confidence that Chaplin made people look at the world more positively despite his own troubles. And even though his films were in black and white, he put a lot of color into everyone's life.

　　英语唯美散文 篇5

　　My grandfather died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying with us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father‘s office, which we referred to as "the back room." She carried with her a powerful aroma. I don‘t know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barreled, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtains and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to make the pungent odor go away.

　　This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the infamous pea incident.

　　It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fancies place to eat in all of Providence. My grandmother, my mother, and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas.

　　I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now.

　　"Eat your peas," my grandmother said.

　　"Mother," said my mother in her warning voice. "He doesn‘t like peas. Leave him alone."

　　“My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eye and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be 14)thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eye, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life: "I‘ll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas."

　　I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat.

　　My mother was livid. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who has thrown down an unbeatable trump card. "I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can‘t stop me." My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold medal.

　　I, of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought.

　　My grandmother left for Aunt Lillian‘s a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years.

　　"You ate them for money," she said. "You can eat them for love."

　　Oh, despair! Oh, devastation! Now, too late, came the dawning realization that I had unwittingly damned myself to a hell from which there was no escape.

　　"You ate them for money. You can eat them for love."

　　What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time: "You ate them for money," she says. "You can eat them for love."

　　英语唯美散文 篇6

　　A Typical Day

　　As a high-school teacher, I have understandably become concerned not just about the future of our profession but the public perception of it as well.I decided recently, therefore, to take advantage of the so-called "spare" time that I have in my work day to take a leisurely stroll around the building and see for myself just what goes on outside my own classroom.

　　The first door I passed was that of a math teacher who was providing individual attention to a student who was quite obviously having some difficulty.The student‘s face said it all: frustration, confusion, quiet desperation.The teacher remained upbeat, offering support and encouragement.

　　"Let‘s try again, but we‘ll look at it from a slightly different point of view," she said and proceeded to erase the chalkboard in search of a better solution.

　　Further down the hall, I came across the doorway of one of our history teachers.As I paused to eavesdrop, I witnessed a large semicircle of enthusiastic students engaged in a lively debate regarding current Canadian events and issues.The teacher chose to take somewhat of a back-seat role, entering the fray only occasionally to pose a rhetorical question or to gently steer the conversation back toward the task at hand.They switched to role-playing and smaller groups of students chose to express the viewpoints of various provinces.The debate grew louder and more intense.The teacher smiled and stepped in to referee.

　　Passing the gym balcony, I looked down to see a physical education teacher working with a group of boys on a basketball passing drill.

　　"Pass and cut away!" he shouted."Set a screen.Hit the open man."

　　Suddenly, there was a break in the action.

　　"Hold on, guys," he said."Do you guys really understand why we‘re doing this drill?"

　　A mixture of blank stares and shrugged shoulders provided the answer, so he proceeded to take a deep breath and explain not only the purpose of the drill, but exactly how it fit into the grand scheme of offense and team play.A few nods of understanding and the group returned to its task with renewed vigor.

　　The next stop on my journey was the open door of a science lab where, again, a flurry of activity was taking place.I watched intently as a group of four students explained and demonstrated the nature and design of a scientific invention they had created.As they took turns regaling their small but attentive audience about the unique features of their project, a teacher was nearby, busy videotaping their entire presentation.

　　As I was leaving, I heard her say, "Okay, let‘s move the television over here and see how you did."

　　Finally, on the way back to my room, I couldn‘t help but investigate the low roar coming from down the hall.Music blaring, feet stomping, instructions straining to be heard above the din.Dancers of every shape and size were moving in seemingly random directions, although their various destinations were obviously quite well-rehearsed.Good things were happening here: hard work, sweat, intense concentration.And then, a mistake.One of the dancers offered an explanation, which led to a discussion among several of them.The dance teacher intervened and facilitated a resolution.A half-hearted plea by one of the students for a quick break fell on deaf ears.

　　"We‘ll have our break when we get this part right," she called out.A brief pep talk imploring them to push themselves just a little further seemed to create some new energy, and once again the place was hopping."Now, from the top . . ."

　　My excursion complete, I returned to my corner of the school and reflected on what I had observed.Nothing surprising really.It was essentially what I had expected to find: goal-setting, problem-solving, teamwork, critical analysis, debate, discussion.In short, learning.

　　The only thing that you may have found surprising, but I didn‘t, was that when I began my journey, the regular school day had already ended an hour before.

　　Reprinted by permission of Brian Totzke (c) 1997 from Chicken Soup for the Teacher‘s Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen.In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.All rights reserved.

　　英语唯美散文 篇7

　　The first memory I have of him — of anything, really — is his strength. It was in the late afternoon in a house under construction near ours. The unfinished wood floor had large, terrifying holes whose yawning[张大嘴] darkness I knew led to nowhere good. His powerful hands, then age 33, wrapped all the way around my tiny arms, then age 4, and easily swung[摇摆] me up to his shoulders to command all I surveyed.

　　我对他——实际上是对所有事的最初记忆，就是他的力量。那是一个下午的晚些时候，在一所靠近我家的正在修建的房子里，尚未完工的木地板上有一个个巨大可怕的洞，那些张着大口的黑洞在我看来是通向不祥之处的。时年33岁的爸爸用那强壮有力的双手一把握住我的小胳膊，当时我才4岁，然后轻而易举地把我甩上他的肩头，让我把一切都尽收眼底。

　　The relationship between a son and his father changes over time. It may grow and flourish[繁茂] in mutual maturity[成熟]. It may sour in resented dependence or independence. With many children living in single-parent homes today, it may not even exist.

　　父子间的关系是随着岁月的流逝而变化的，它会在彼此成熟的过程中成长兴盛，也会在令人不快的依赖或独立的关系中产生不和。而今许多孩子生活在单亲家庭中，这种关系可能根本不存在。

　　But to a little boy right after World War II ,a father seemed a god with strange strengths and uncanny[离奇的] powers enabling him to do and know things that no mortal could do or know. Amazing things, like putting a bicycle chain back on, just like that. Or building a hamster[仓鼠] cage.Or guiding a jigsaw[拼板玩具] so it forms the letter F;I learned the alphabet[字母表] that way in those pre-television days.

　　然而，对于一个生活在二战刚刚结束时期的小男孩来说，父亲就像神，他拥有神奇的力量和神秘的能力，他无所不能，无所不知。那些奇妙的事儿有上自行车链条，或是建一个仓鼠笼子，或是教我玩拼图玩具，拼出个字母“F”来。在那个电视机还未诞生的年代，我便是通过这种方法学会了字母表的。

　　There were, of course, rules to learn. First came the handshake. None of those fishy[冷冰冰的] little finger grips, but a good firm squeeze accompanied by an equally strong gaze into the other's eyes. “ The first thing anyone knows about you is your handshake,” he would say. And we'd practice it each night on his return from work, the serious toddler in the battered[用旧了的] Cleveland Indian's cap running up to the giant father to shake hands again and again until it was firm enough.

　　当然，还得学些做人的道理。首先是握手。这可不是指那种冷冰冰的手指相握，而是一种非常坚定有力的紧握，同时同样坚定有力地注视对方的眼睛。老爸常说： “人们认识你首先是通过同你握手。”每晚他下班回家时，我们便练习握手。年幼的我，戴着顶破克利夫兰印第安帽，一本正经地跌跌撞撞地跑向巨人般的父亲，开始我们的握手。一次又一次，直到握得坚定，有力。

　　As time passed, there were other rules to learn. “Always do your best.”“Do it now.”“Never lie!” And most importantly,“You can do whatever you have to do.” By my teens, he wasn't telling me what to do anymore, which was scary[令人害怕的] and heady[使人兴奋的] at the same time. He provided perspective, not telling me what was around the great corner of life but letting me know there was a lot more than just today and the next, which I hadn't thought of.

　　随着时间的流逝，还有许多其他的道理要学。比如：“始终尽力而为”，“从现在做起”，“永不撒谎”，以及最重要的一条：“凡是你必须做的事你都能做到”。当我十几岁时，老爸不再叫我做这做那，这既令人害怕又令人兴奋。他教给我判断事物的方法。他不是告诉我，在人生的重大转折点上将发生些什么，而是让我明白，除了今天和明天，还有很长的路要走，这一点我是从未考虑过的。

　　One day, I realize now, there was a change. I wasn't trying to please him so much as I was trying to impress him. I never asked him to come to my football games. He had a high-pressure career, and it meant driving through most of Friday night. But for all the big games, when I looked over at the sideline, there was that familiar fedora. And by God, did the opposing team captain ever get a firm handshake and a gaze he would remember.

　　有一天，事情发生了变化，这是我现在才意识到的。我不再那么迫切地想要取悦于老爸，而是迫切地想要给他留下深刻的印象。我从未请他来看我的橄榄球赛。他工作压力很大，这意味着每个礼拜五要拼命干大半夜。但每次大型比赛，当我抬头环视看台时，那顶熟悉的软呢帽总在那儿。并且感谢上帝，对方队长总能得到一次让他铭记于心的握手——坚定而有力，伴以同样坚定的注视。

　　Then, a school fact contradicted something he said. Impossible that he could be wrong, but there it was in the book. These accumulated over time, along with personal experiences, to buttress my own developing sense of values. And I could tell we had each taken our own, perfectly normal paths.

　　后来，在学校学到的一个事实否定了老爸说过的'某些东西。他不可能会错的，可书上却是这样写的。诸如此类的事日积月累，加上我的个人阅历，支持了我逐渐成形的价值观。我可以这么说：我俩开始各走各的阳关道了。

　　I began to see, too, his blind spots, his prejudices[偏见] and his weaknesses. I never threw these up at him. He hadn't to me, and, anyway, he seemed to need protection. I stopped asking his advice; the experiences he drew from no longer seemed relevant to the decisions I had to make.

　　与此同时，我还开始发现他对某些事的无知，他的偏见，他的弱点。我从未在他面前提起这些，他也从未在我面前说起，而且，不管怎么说，他看起来需要保护了。我不再向他征求意见；他的那些经验也似乎同我要做出的决定不再相干。

　　He volunteered advice for a while. But then, in more recent years, politics and issues gave way to talk of empty errands and, always, to ailments.

　　老爸当了一段时间的“自愿顾问”，但后来，特别是近几年里，他谈话中的政治与国家大事让位给了空洞的使命与疾病。

　　From his bed, he showed me the many sores and scars on his misshapen body and all the bottles for medicine. “ Sometimes,” he confided[倾诉], “ I would just like to lie down and go to sleep and not wake up.”

　　躺在床上，他给我看他那被岁月扭曲了的躯体上的疤痕，以及他所有的药瓶儿。他倾诉着：“有时我真想躺下睡一觉，永远不再醒来。”

　　After much thought and practice （“ You can do whatever you have to do.” ）， one night last winter, I sat down by his bed and remembered for an instant those terrifying dark holes in another house 35 years before. I told my fatherhow much I loved him. I described all the things people were doing for him. But, I said, he kept eating poorly, hiding in his room and violating the doctor's orders. No amount of love could make someone else care about life, I said; it was a two-way street. He wasn't doing his best. The decision was his.

　　通过深思熟虑与亲身体验（“凡是你必须做的事你都能做到”），去年冬天的一个夜晚，我坐在老爸床边，忽然想起35年前那另一栋房子里可怕的黑洞。我告诉老爸我有多爱他。我向他讲述了人们为他所做的一切。而我又说，他总是吃得太少，躲在房间里，还不听医生的劝告。我说，再多的爱也不能使一个人自己去热爱生命：这是一条双行道，而他并没有尽力，一切都取决于他自己。

　　He said he knew how hard my words had been to say and how proud he was of me. “ I had the best teacher,” I said. “ You can do whatever you have to do.” He smiled a little. And we shook hands, firmly, for the last time.

　　他说他明白要我说出这些话多不容易，他是多么为我自豪。“我有位最好的老师，”我说，“凡是你必须做的事你都能做到”。他微微一笑，之后我们握手，那是一次坚定的握手，也是最后的一次。

　　Several days later, at about 4 A.M., my mother heard Dad shuffling[拖着] about their dark room. “ I have some things I have to do,” he said. He paid a bundle of bills. He composed for my mother a long list of legal and financial what-to-do's “ in case of emergency.” And he wrote me a note.

　　几天后，大约凌晨四点，母亲听到父亲拖着脚步在他们漆黑的房间里走来走去。他说：“有些事我必须得做。”他支付了一叠帐单，给母亲留了张长长的条子，上面列有法律及经济上该做的事，“以防不测”。接着他留了封短信给我。

　　Then he walked back to his bed and laid himself down. He went to sleep, naturally. And he did not wake up.

　　然后，他走回自己的床边，躺下。他睡了，十分安详，再也没有醒来。

　　英语唯美散文 篇8

　　Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

　　I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy - ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness ? that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what ? at least ? I have found.

　　With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway over the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.

　　Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.

　　This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.

　　三种简单却又无比强烈的激情左右了我的一生：对爱的渴望，对知识的探索和对人类苦难的难以忍受的怜悯。这些激情像狂风，吹来吹去，方向不定，痛苦的深海，到了绝望的边缘。

　　我追求爱情，首先是因为它带来狂喜——我常常为之心醉神迷，牺牲所有的余生来换取几个小时这样的欣喜。下，我寻找爱，还因为它能减轻孤独感吗？看起来可怕的孤独中，一颗颤抖的意识世界的边缘而面前是是冰冷，无底的深渊。最后，我寻找爱，还因为在爱的结合我所看到的，在一个神秘的缩影中看到了圣人和诗人眼里天堂的愿景有想象。这就是我希望，虽然为人类生活似乎太好了，这是什么？至少？我发现。

　　以同样的激情我探索知识。我希望能够理解人类的心灵。我希望能够知道群星为何闪烁。我试图领悟毕达哥拉斯所景仰的数字力量，它支配通量。一点，但不多，我实现了。

　　爱和知识，只要有可能，通向着天堂。但是怜悯总把我带回尘世。痛苦呼喊的回声回荡在我的内心。，忍饥挨饿的孩子，惨遭压迫者摧残的受害者，被儿女们视为可憎的负担的无助的老人的儿子，和整个世界的孤独、贫穷和痛苦的人类的生命是什么。我渴望减少邪恶，但我不能，我也受到影响。

　　这就是我的一生。我发现它值得一过，如果有机会，我会很乐意再活给我。

　　英语唯美散文 篇9

　　There was a group called "The Fisherman‘s Fellowship". They were surrounded by streams and lakes full of hungry fish. They met regularly to discuss the call to fish, and the thrill of catching fish. They got excited about fishing!!

　　Someone suggested that they needed a philosophy of fishing, so they carefully defined and redefined fishing, and the purpose of fishing. They developed fishing strategies and tactics. Then they realized that they had been going at it backwards. They had approached fishing from the point of view of the fisherman, and not from the point of view of the fish. How do fish view the world? How does the fisherman appear to the fish? What do fish eat, and when? These are all good things to know. So they began research studies, and attended conferences on fishing. Some traveled to far away places to study different kinds of fish, with different habits. Some got PhD‘s in fishology. But no one had yet gone fishing.

　　So a committee was formed to send out fishermen. As prospective fishing places outnumbered fishermen, the committee needed to determine priorities.

　　A priority list of fishing places was posted on bulletin boards in all of the fellowship halls. But still, no one was fishing. A survey was launched, to find out why… Most did not answer the survey, but from those that did, it was discovered that some felt called to study fish, a few to furnish fishing equipment, and several to go around encouraging the fisherman.

　　What with meetings, conferences, and seminars, they just simply didn‘t have time to fish.

　　Now, Jake was a newcomer to the Fisherman‘s Fellowship. After one stirring meeting of the Fellowship, Jake went fishing. He tried a few things, got the hang of it, and caught a choice fish. At the next meeting, he told his story, and he was honored for his catch, and then scheduled to speak at all the Fellowship chapters and tell how he did it. Now, because of all the speaking invitations and his election to the board of directors of the Fisherman‘s Fellowship, Jake no longer has time to go fishing.

　　But soon he began to feel restless and empty. He longed to feel the tug on the line once again. So he cut the speaking, he resigned from the board, and he said to a friend, "Let‘s go fishing." They did, just the two of them, and they caught fish.

　　The members of the Fisherman‘s Fellowship were many, the fish were plentiful, but the fishers were few.

　　英语唯美散文 篇10

　　people need homes: children assume their parents’ place as home; boarders call school ‘home’ on weekdays; married couples work together to build new homes; and travelers … have no place to call ‘home’, at least for a few nights.

　　so how about people who have to travel for extended periods of time? don’t they have the right to a home? of course they do.

　　some regular travelers take their own belongings: like bed sheets, pillowcases and family photos to make them feel like home no matter where they are; some stay for long periods in the same hotel and as a result become very familiar with service and attendants; others may simply put some flowers by the hotel window to make things more homely. furthermore, driving a camping car during one’s travels and sleeping in the vehicle at night is just like home – only mobile!

　　and how about maintaining relationships while in transit? some keep contact with their friends via internet; some send letters and postcards, or even photos; others may just call and say hi, just to let their friends know that they’re still alive and well. people find ways to keep in touch. making friends on the way helps travelers feel more or less at home. backpackers in youth hostels may become very good friends, even closer than siblings.

　　nowadays, fewer people are working in their local towns, so how do they develop a sense of belonging? whenever we step out of our local boundaries, there is always another ‘home’ waiting to be found. wherever we are, with just a little bit of effort and imagination, we can make the place we stay “home”.

　　英语唯美散文 篇11

　　A Love Letter

　　Pain is constant companion and isn't very good one. I try to reason with this and I end of feeling miserable. I can not help but think about you. You, who has so much to give and share with me. Even when I was young, you were constant figure. You were there to see me grow up. I cried and laught, I learned and you were there to guide me. With your gray hair and chunky glasses. I would watch you think and blued and you sudden smile would lide up your face as quickly as it come. That is the very thing I love about you.You smile, I think about the times I missed being with you. So many years have passed since I saw you again. And for a breath moment I imagined you not being in my life. I wanna to cry, but I knew you were be there, as you always were.The gray hair has turned to white. And with that came a wiry frame that was fragile. Still, the eyes was ever and mind that was well running. You taught me to be strong and live for my dreams. If you were wishes for hunger for knowledge. You taught me to love learning. Always telling me that knowledge is constant thing. You were so strong, so wise and your presense was always comfort. I always love being by your side. You always gave me a hug when I fell down. I never love too crowds and you always seem to understand that not pression me to jion in the others or pretend to have a good time.I got lost the books you taught me to read. Those books which you gave me to learn more about the world. Ever so after remind of the things you taught me. You always love books. You never said much, but I always knew that every time we saw each other. You were glad to see me as I always glad to see you. I remember you with the teary face and wasteful smile. My pain is more insistant and try to hold on to the hope that you will pull through this. Like the strong person that you were. I love you grandpa.

　　英语唯美散文 篇12

　　My l4-year-old son, John, and I spotted the coat simultaneously. It was hanging on a rack at a secondhand clothing store in Northampton Mass, crammed in with shoddy trench coats and an assortment of sad, woolen overcoats -- a rose among thorns.

　　While the other coats drooped, this one looked as if it were holding itself up. The thick, black wool of the double-breasted chesterfield was soft and unworn, as though it had been preserved in mothballs for years in dead old Uncle Henry's steamer trunk. The coat had a black velvet collar, beautiful tailoring, a Fifth Avenue label and an unbelievable price of $28. We looked at each other, saying nothing, but John's eyes gleamed. Dark, woolen topcoats were popular just then with teenage boys, but could cost several hundred dollars new. This coat was even better, bearing that touch of classic elegance from a bygone era.

　　John slid his arms down into the heavy satin lining of the sleeves and buttoned the coat. He turned from side to side, eyeing himself in the mirror with a serious, studied expression that soon changed into a smile. The fit was perfect.

　　John wore the coat to school the next day and came home wearing a big grin. "Ho. did the kids like your coat?" I asked. "They loved it," he said, carefully folding it over the back of a chair and smoothing it flat. I started calling him "Lord Chesterfield" and "The Great Gatsby."

　　Over the next few weeks, a change came over John. Agreement replaced contrariness, quiet, reasoned discussion replaced argument. He became more judicious, more mannerly, more thoughtful, eager to please. "Good dinner, Mom," he would say every evening.

　　He would generously loan his younger brother his tapes and lecture him on the niceties of behaviour; without a word of objection, he would carry in wood for the stove. One day when I suggested that he might start on homework before dinner, John -- a veteran procrastinator - said, "You're right. I guess I will."

　　When I mentioned this incident to one of his teachers and remarked that I didn't know what caused the changes, she said laughing. "It must be his coat!" Another teacher told him she was giving him a good mark not only because he had earned it but because she liked his coat. At the library, we ran into a friend who had not seen our children in a long time, "Could this be John?" he asked, looking up to John's new height, assessing the cut of his coat and extending his hand, one gentleman to another.

　　John and I both know we should never mistake a person's clothes for the real person within them. But there is something to be said for wearing a standard of excellence for the world to see, for practising standards of excellence in though, speech, and behaviour, and for matching what is on the inside to what is on the outside.

　　Sometimes, watching John leave for school, I've remembered with a keen sting what it felt like to be in the eighth grade -- a time when it was as easy to try on different approaches to life as it was to try on a coat. The whole world, the whole future is stretched out ahead, a vast panorama where all the doors are open. And if I were there right now, I would picture myself walking through those doors wearing my wonderful, magical coat.

　　英语唯美散文 篇13

　　Writing is to hold back things that are going to leave anyway.So I used to write about flowers in spring,before the night they were going to wither,and I wrote about rain in autumn, though it never comes back from the darkness.

　　Anger.Happiness.Surprise.Sorrow.Disappointment.Passion.I’m always trying to keep them with me,and I always fail.It took me years to understand,that I could never keep some feelings which are only supposed to live for seconds forever with me,that I can take nothing back from time,that instant is longer than ever.

　　But I am still writing.For me, and for every moment.Before I write,I already know the answer,but I can never refuse to start because of the fear of the endings.

　　Sinpolo.Just the word, Sinpolo.A nonsense word that means nothing.

　　A word printed on the glass door of the shower room, probably the name of the brand of the glass or the design of the glass door.A “Chinglish” word created by one of the factories which wanted to follow the fashion trend of adding an English name for their brand.A fashionable brand name, even without the original Chinese name beside it.

　　It was not large or an obvious color,but it was right up there.As long as I lifted my head up,I could see it,and it was also the only point I could stare at.Sometimes the iron curtain outside the window was open,and I could clearly see how light went through the glass door and reflected on the water stains,and how “Sinpolo” took the sunshine,absorbed its color,and created its own image on the wall.Sometimes there's no light,so I just looked up into the dark city through the glass,and the word showed up,with a fluorescence in my mind.I enjoyed playing with the lights,using my hand to interrupt them from their original route,using my phone to rearrange them,or just putting my hands under them and observing how lines on my palm were like mountains with shadows.

　　During those years in that house,I did two things most frequently:argued with my father,and read meaningless novels.I argued with my father fiercely every week,for things I can't even remember now,and,as a result,I cried often.Most times,I didn't mean to,but maybe my tears had their own considerations.There was nothing worth my tears,I thought,so I rushed to the bathroom whenever this happened--no,not my own room,because I wanted neither my bed,my desk or my books to see me cry, nor did I want to remind myself of the arguments whenever I sat in front of my desk.

　　At this point,I should have been grateful for Sinpolo,of watching a boring and repeated teenager doing exactly the same thing for thousands of times.Sometimes we stared at each other;I saw the river outside the building I lived in through it,but I didn't know what it saw through me.On some occasions,at midnight,after finishing another novel full of bullshit,I went to the bathroom,still like a walking dead,with my soul sucked inside the book.Then I saw the words,or I should say then we saw each other,and I came back.

　　When I stared at it,I called its name in my mind.sin'pore,this is how I usually called it,but maybe it's wrong, maybe it should be sinpore, or sinpore, or just shengbaoluo,its Chinese pronunciation.I did feel sad for it,as its name actually meant something like saint,holy Polo,but the factory made it as Sin Polo.Did they ever know what they were doing?Or maybe they knew,and this was what exactly they wanted.I didn't think it’s very possible though.

　　But I called it my way anyway,when I wanted to calm myself down,especially when I wanted to stop myself from wasting H2O,I would silently read it for one thousand times in that moment,and amazingly,it would wipe out all strange thoughts,and I could have a blank brain to add some other things into.I knew I was thinking too much every day.Sometimes even when I was doing homework,the rain outside would flow through the window and onto my face.Then I lifted my head up,staring at one point in the void,and that voice of Sinpolo appeared,fixing my leak of emotions as usual.

　　This was not good,I would say.I was relying on it.If my mom could open up my head as the mother in Peter Pan does,she would find out that the word was occupying half of my brain.

　　After leaving the house,I used to ask my mom about it.“Do you remember the bathroom of our last house?” “Yes, ”my mother answered,with a curious look on her face,“then what?” “Do you still remember Sinpolo?” “No? What's that?” “It's the brand of the glass door in the bathroom.” “No, what's special about it?”“Well, nothing. ”

　　I felt tired in the middle of the conversation,and suddenly didn't want to share my feelings with her any more.I could tell my mother thought I acted strangely,but this was because that by then she didn't realize,and not did I by then,which kind of person was in front of her.This person was one of those least responsible ones among the crowd,those who were born to be too lazy to think,but still too eager to show off,those who had no intentions of targeting against anything so also had no intentions of knowing any,those who had extraordinary ability of senses like infants,and those who felt no sense of mission for it.

　　This person is not ready to take responsibility over her emotions now,and the word will take care of her and restrain her,until that day comes.

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