鸟啼原文
WHISTLING OF BIRDS
电脑版网页
D. H. Lawrence
The frost held for many weeks, until the birds were dying rapidly. Everywhere in the fields and under the hedges lay the ragged remains of lapwings, starlings, thrushes, redwings, innumerable ragged, bloody cloaks of birds, whence the flesh was eaten by invisible beasts of prey.
自我评价怎么写中学生Then, quite suddenly, one morning, the change came. The wind went to the south, came off the a warm and soothing. In the afternoon there were little gleams of sunshine, and the doves began, without interval, slowly and awkwardly to coo. The doves were cooing, though with a laboured sound, as if they were still winter-stunned. Nevertheless, all the afternoon they continued their noi, in the mild air, before the frost had thawed off the road. At evening the wind blew gently, still gathering a bruising quality of frost from the hard
earth. Then, in the yellow-gleamy sunt, wild birds began to whistle faintly in the blackthorn thickets of the stream-bottom.
It was startling and almost frightening, after the heavy silence of frost. How could they sing at once, when the ground was thickly strewn with the torn carcass of birds? Yet out of the evening came the uncertain, silvery sounds that made one’s soul start alert, almost with fear. How could the little silver bugles sound the rally so swiftly, in the soft air, when the earth was yet bound? Yet the birds continued their whistling, rather dimly and brokenly, but throwing the threads of silver, germinating noi into the air.节后收心会
It was almost a pain to realize, so swiftly, the new world. “Le monde est mort. Vive le monde!” But the birds omitted even the first part of the announcement, their cry was only a faint, blind, fecund “vive!”
There is another world. The winter is gone. There is a new world of spring. The voice of the turtle is heard in the land. But the flesh shrinks from so sudden a transition. Surely the call is premature, while the clods are still frozen, and the ground is littered with the remain
越过谎言去拥抱你s of wings! Yet we have no choice. In the bottoms of impenetrable blackthorn, each evening and morning now, out flickers a whistling of birds.
Where does it come from, the song? After so long a cruelty, how can they make it up so quickly? But it bubbles through them, they are like little well-heads, little fountain-heads whence the spring trickles and bubbles forth. It is not of their own doing. In their throats the new life distils itlf into sound. It is the rising of the silvery sap of a new summer, gurgling itlf forth.
什么炒鸡蛋最好吃
All the time, whilst the earth lay choked and killed and winter-mortified, the deep undersprings were quiet. They only wait for the ponderous encumbrance of the old order to give way, yield in the thaw, and there they are, a silver realm at once. Under the surge of ruin, unmitigated winter, lies the silver potentiality of all blossom. One day the black tide must spend itlf and fade back. Then all-suddenly appears the crocus, hovering triumphant in the year, and we know the order has changed, there is a new regime, sound of a new “Vive! Vive!”
It is no u any more to look at the torn remnants of birds that lie expod. It is no longer any u remembering the sullen thunder of frost and the intolerable pressure of cold upon us. For whether we will or not, they are gone. The choice is not ours. We many remain wintry and destructive for a little longer, if we wish it, but the winter is gone out of us, and willy-nilly our hearts sing a little at sunt.
雍正年羹尧Even whilst we stare at the ragged horror of birds scattered broadcast, part-eaten, the soft, uneven cooing of the pigeon ripples from the outhous, and there is a faint silver whistling in the bushes come twilight. No matter, we stand and stare at the torn and unsightly ruins of life, we watch the weary, mutilated columns of winter retreating under our eyes. Yet in our ears are the silver vivid bugles of a new creation advancing on us from behind, we hear the rolling of the soft and happy drums of the doves.
We may not choo the world. We have hardly any choice for ourlves. We follow with our eyes the bloody and horrid line of march of this extreme winter, as it pass away. But we cannot hold back the spring. We cannot make the birds silent, prevent the bubblin猜明星名字
g of the wood-pigeons. We cannot stay the fine world of silver-fecund creation from gathering itlf and taking place upon us. Whether we will or mo, the daphne tree will soon be giving off perfume, the lambs dancing on two feet, the celandines will twinkle all over the ground, there will be new heaven and new earth.
轻描淡写的意思For it is in us, as well as without us. Tho who can may follow the columns of winter in their retreat from off the earth. Some of us, we have no choice, the spring is within us, the silver fountain begins to bubble under our breast, there is a gladness in spite of ourlves. And on the instant we accept the gladness! The first day of change, out whistles an unusual, interrupted pean, a fragment that will augment itlf imperceptibly. And this in spite of the extreme bitterness of the suffering, in spite of the myriads of torn dead.
