学习啦【英语美文欣赏】 楚欣时间：2015-09-11 16:50:57我要投稿
It is sweet on awaking in the early 1)morn to listento the small bird singing on the tree. No sound ofvoice or flute is like to the bird‘s song; there issomething in it distinct and separate from all othernotes. The throat of woman gives forth a moreperfect music, and the organ is the glory of man‘ssoul. The bird upon the tree utters the meaning ofthe wind—a voice of the grass and wild flower, wordsof the green leaf; they speak through that slendertone. Sweetness of 2)dew and rifts of sunshine, thedark 3)hawthorn touched with breadths of openbud, the 4)odour of the air, the colour of the 5)daffodil—all that is delicious and beloved ofspring-time are expressed in his song. Genius is nature, and his lay, like the sap in the boughfrom which he sings, rises without thought. Nor is it necessary that it should be a song; a fewshort notes in the sharp spring morning are sufficient to stir the heart. But yesterday theleast of them all came to a bough by my window, and in his call I heard the sweet-briar windrushing over the young grass. 6)Refulgent fall the golden rays of the sun; a minute only, theclouds cover him and the hedge is dark. The bloom of the 7)gorse is shut like a book; but it isthere—a few hours of warmth and the covers will fall open. The meadow is bare, but in a littlewhile the heart-shaped 8)celandine leaves will come in their accustomed place. On the pollardwillows the long wands are yellow-ruddy in the passing gleam of sunshine, the first colour ofspring appears in their bark. The delicious wind rushes among them and they bow and rise; ittouches the top of the dark pine that looks in the sun the same now as in summer; it lifts andswings the arching trail of bramble; it dries and crumbles the earth in its fingers; the hedge-sparrow‘s feathers are fluttered as he sings on the bush.
I wonder to myself how they can all get on without me—how they manage, bird and flower,without me to keep the calendar for them. For I noted it so carefully and lovingly, day by day,the seed-leaves on the mounds in the sheltered places that come so early, the pushing up ofthe young grass, the succulent dandelion, the coltsfoot on the heavy, thick clods, the troddenchickweed despised at the foot of the gate-post, so common and small, and yet so dear to me.Every blade of grass was mine, as though I had planted it separately. They were all my pets, asthe roses the lover of his garden tends so faithfully. All the grasses of the meadow were mypets, I loved them all; and perhaps that was why I never had a ‘pet,‘ never cultivated a flower,never kept a caged bird, or any creature. Why keep pets when every wild free hawk thatpassed overhead in the air was mine? I joyed in his swift, careless flight, in the throw of hispinions, in his rush over the elms and miles of woodland; it was happiness to see hisunchecked life. What more beautiful than the sweep and curve of his going through the zuresky? These were my pets, and all the grass. Under the wind it seemed to dry and become grey,and the starlings running to and fro on the surface that did not sink now stood high above itand were larger. The dust that drifted along blessed it and it grew. Day by day a change; alwaysa note to make. The moss drying on the tree trunks, dog‘s-mercury stirring under the ash-poles, bird‘s-claw buds of beech lengthening; books upon books to be filled with these things.I cannot think how they manage without me.
For they were so much to me, I had come to feel that I was as much in return to them. Theold, old error: I love the earth, therefore the earth loves me—I am her child—I am Man, thefavoured of all creatures. I am the centre, and all for me was made.
In time past, strong of foot, I walked gaily up the noble hill that leads to Beachy Head fromEastbourne, joying greatly in the sun and the wind. Every step crumbled up numbers of minutegrey shells, empty and dry, that crunched under foot like hoar-frost or fragile beads. Theywere very pretty; it was a shame to crush them—such vases as no king‘s pottery could make.
They lay by millions in the depths of the sward, and I thought as I broke them unwillinglythat each of these had once been a house of life. A living creature dwelt in each and felt the joyof existence, and was to itself all in all—as if the great sun over the hill shone for it, and thewidth of the earth under was for it, and the grass and plants put on purpose for it. They weredead, the whole race of them, and these their skeletons were as dust under my feet. Naturesets no value upon life neither of minute hill-snail nor of human being.
I thought myself so much to the earliest leaf and the first meadow Orchis—so importantthat I should note the first zee-zee of the Titlark—that I should pronounce it summer, becausenow the oaks were green; I must not miss a day nor an hour in the fields lest something shouldescape me. How beautiful the droop of the great brome-grass by the wood! But to-day I haveto listen to the lark‘s song—not out of doors with him, but through the window-pane, and thebullfinch carries the rootlet fibre to his nest without me. They manage without me very well;they know their times and seasons—not only the civilised rooks, with their libraries ofknowledge in their old nests of reference, but the stray things of the hedge and the chiffchafffrom over sea in the ash wood. They go on without me. Orchis flower and cowslip—I cannotnumber them all—I hear, as it were, the patter of their feet—flower and bud and the beautifulclouds that go over, with the sweet rush of rain and burst of sun glory among the leafy trees.They go on, and I am no more than the least of the empty shells that strewed the area of grassof the hill. Nature sets no value upon life, neither of mine nor of the larks that sang years ago.The earth is all in all to me, but I am nothing to the earth: it is bitter to know this before youare dead.