The frost held for many weeks, until the birds were dying rapidly. Ev erywhere in the fields and under the hedges lay the ragged remains o f lapwings, starlings, thrushes, redwings, innumerable ragged, blood y cloaks of birds, whence the flesh was eaten by invisible beasts of p rey.
Then, quite suddenly, one morning, the change came. The wind went to the south, came off the a warm and soothing. In the afternoon t here were little gleams of sunshine, and the doves began, without int erval, slowly and awkwardly to coo. The doves were cooing, though with a laboured sound, as if they were still winter-stunned. Neverthel ess, all the afternoon they continued their noi, in the mild air, befor e 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, i n 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 fros t. 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 unc ertain, silvery sounds that made one’s soul start alert, almost with fear. How could the little silver bugles
白鲳鱼的做法大全sound the rally so swiftly, in the soft air, when the earth was yet bou nd? Yet the birds continued their whistling, rather dimly and brokenl y, but throwing the threads of silver, germinating noi into the air.
It was almost a pain to realize, so swiftly, the new world. “Le mond e est mort. Vive le monde!” But the birds omitted even the first part of the announcement, their cry was only a faint, blind, fecund “viv e!”
征召模式There is another world. The winter is gone. There is a new world of s pring. The voice of the turtle is heard in the land. But the flesh shrin ks from so sudden a transition. Surely the call is premature, while th e clods are still frozen, and the ground is littered with the remains of wings! Yet we have no choice. In the bottoms of impenetrable blackt horn, each evening and morning now, out flickers a whistling of bird s.
鲍鱼补什么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 li ke little well-heads, little fountain-heads whence the spring trickles a nd 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 ne
w summer, gurgling itlf forth.
All the time, whilst the earth lay choked and killed and winter-mortif ied, the deep undersprings were quiet. They only wait for the ponder ous 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, unmiti gated winter, lies the silver potentiality of all blossom. One day the b lack tide must spend itlf and fade back. Then all-suddenly appears the crocus, hovering triumphant in the year, and we know the order h as changed, there is a new regime, sound of a new “Vive! Vive!”
深远的近义词
玉扣It is no u any more to look at the torn remnants of birds that lie exp od. 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 a nd 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.
Even whilst we stare at the ragged horror of birds scattered broadcast , part-eaten, the soft, uneven cooing of the pigeon ripples from the o uthous, and there is a faint silver whistling in the bushes come twil ight. No matter, we stand and stare at the torn and unsightly ruins of
life, we watch the weary, mutilated columns of winter retreating und er our eyes. Yet in our ears are the silver vivid bugles of a new creati on advancing on us from behind, we hear the rolling of the soft and happy drums of the doves.
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We may not choo the world. We have hardly any choice for ourl ves. 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 s pring. We cannot make the birds silent, prevent the bubbling of the w ood-pigeons. We cannot stay the fine world of silver-fecund creation from gathering itlf and taking place upon us. Whether we will or m o, the daphne tree will soon be giving off perfume, the lambs dancin g on two feet, the celandines will twinkle all over the ground, there will be new heaven and new earth.
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For it is in us, as well as without us. Tho who can may follow the c olumns of winter in their retreat from off the earth. Some of us, we h ave no choice, the spring is within us, the silver fountain begins to b ubble 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 w histles an unusual, interrupted pean, a fragment that will augment its elf imperceptibly. And this in spite of the extreme bitterness of the su
ffering, in spite of the myriads of torn dead.
Such a long, long winter, and the frost only broke yesterday. Yet it ems, already, we cannot remember it. It is strangely remote, like a far -off darkness. It is as unreal as a dream in the night. This is the morn ing of reality, when we are ourlves. This is natural and real, the gli mmering of a n
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ew creation that stirs in us and about us. We know the re was winter, long, fearful. We know the earth was strangled and m ortified, we know the body of life was torn and scattered broadcast. But what is this retrospective knowledge? It is something extraneous to us, extraneous to this that we are now. and what we are, and what, it ems, we always have been, is this quickening lovely silver plas m of pure creativity. All the mortification and tearing, ah yes, it was upon us, encompassing us. It was like a storm or a mist or a falling fr om a height. It was entangled upon us, like bats in our hair, driving u s mad. But it was never really our innermost lf. Within, we were al ways apart, we were this, this limpid fountain of silver, then quiesce nt, rising and breaking now into the flowering.
It is strange, the utter in compatibility of death with life. Whilst there is death, life is not to be found. It is all death, one overwhelming flo od. And then a new tide ris, and it is all life, a fountain of silvery b
