六級晨讀英語美文賞析

　　英語晨讀，是備考複習英語六級的一種學習方法。下面是小編為大家帶來，歡迎大家閱讀!

　　：Rush

　　Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return;

　　willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening;

　　peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again.

　　Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?

　　If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be?

　　Where could he hide them?

　　If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?

　　I don’t know how many days I have been given to spend,

　　but I do feel my hands are getting empty.

　　Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me.

　　Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean,

　　my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless.

　　Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.

　　Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming;

　　yet in between, how fast is the shift, in such a rush?

　　When I get up in the morning,

　　the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs.

　　The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively;

　　and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution.

　　Thus — the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands,

　　wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal,

　　and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence.

　　I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back,

　　but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands.

　　In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way.

　　The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone.

　　I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh.

　　But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.

　　What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape?

　　Nothing but to hesitate, to rush.

　　What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating?

　　Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind,

　　or evaporated as mist by the morning sun.

　　What traces have I left behind me?

　　Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all?

　　I have come to the world, stark naked;

　　am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness?

　　It is not fair though:

　　why should I have made such a trip for nothing!

　　You the wise, tell me,

　　why should our days leave us, never to return?

　　：A Summer Day

　　One day thirty years ago Marseilles lay in the burning sun.

　　A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France

　　than at any other time before or since.

　　Everything in Marseilles and about Marseilles had stared at the fervid sun,

　　and had been stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there.

　　Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses,

　　staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away.

　　The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring

　　were the vines drooping under their loads of grapes.

　　These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air barely moved their faint leaves.

　　The universal stare made the eyes ache.

　　Towards the distant blue of the Italian coast, indeed,

　　it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist

　　slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea,

　　but it softened nowhere else.

　　Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages,

　　and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade,

　　dropped beneath the stare of earth and sky.

　　So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts,

　　creeping slowly towards the interior;

　　so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened;

　　so did the exhausted laborers in the fields.

　　Everything that lived or grew was oppressed by the glare;

　　except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls,

　　and cicada, chirping its dry hot chirp, like a rattle.

　　The very dust was scorched brown,

　　and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting.

　　Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to deep out the stare.

　　Grant it but a chink or a keyhole,

　　and it shot in like a white-hot arrow.