• 论文大全
  • 作文大全
  • 总结报告
  • 演讲致辞
  • 心得体会
  • 领导讲话
  • 党建材料
  • 常用范文
  • 应用文档
  • 学习心得
  • 实习报告
  • 当前位置: 佳讯范文网 > 党建材料 > 正文

    英语专业四级经典美文200篇 [四级英语经典美文【推荐】]

    时间:2018-11-25 22:45:26 来源:佳讯范文网 本文已影响 佳讯范文网手机站



      What is Love? The eternal question we all carry around deep within our heart. Love is the eternal search. Love is eternal when we find it. But do we really ever find it ? When we define it do we negate it? When we set limits on what we believe to be love do we begin to destroy it by hoping to understand or own it for ourselves? We offer it through all of our relationship we vary our giving, often by what we hope to receive in return. But is this really love?


      I recently overheard someone say in a conversation that there is no such thing as “ unconditional love .” I would have to agree, although for different reasons. Love within itself is unconditional. Anything else is only an attempt to love, a learning to get us nearer to the one true knowing of love. It may be honorable, well-intentioned, passionate and desiring, courageous and pure. It may be felt as temporary, but if lost easily it may not have been love at all. Love cannot be thwarted and often fall short of what we hope love will be. This is where we learn we are human.


      Love has been experienced as a life of living poetry. Love has been experienced as being the very notes of song, uplifting and generous to the wanting ear. Love has been experienced as the final act of giving one’s life for another in battle. Love has been experienced as an endless passionate over flow of emotion in the arms of waiting lover.


      What do you do with the love granted to you each day? How many times do we deny its expression for others because we fear what our own expressions will bring? Are we not denying our creator every time we deny the expression of love?


      Lost, empty, alone and searching. As individuals who have experienced separation or divorce, or even the loss of a loved one to death, the separation can be the most traumatic experience we live through. The heart-wrenching pain that seems to never really go away, the enormous waves that hit us daily, the times we hit the wall right after a strong and uplifting experience reminds us that we are learning. We are learning about strength, passion for our own life, about our own sincerity in our beliefs, about our loyalty to who we are, and certainly about our own genuineness. We search for that day when love will come again. We search everywhere, everyday, almost every hour.


      It has been said for centuries that “ love is where the eyes meet with passion, for the eyes cannot hide what the heart feels.” So we have learned to look outward for this eternal love that will fulfill us, forgetting that it must first fill our own hearts. Perhaps that is why we fall into such pain and agony and sorrow when a love affair fails. It is at that moment that we realize we did not fail the other person we expressed love to , but we have somehow not fulfilled ourselves once again. We combat failure with a misunderstood unfulfilled promise. We lade it, not knowing if we will ever find it again. The emotion tides life and fall ,crash and settle, then lift again.


      No one else, no matter how much we talk or cry, can pull us through the anxious hours of soul repair and growth. It is our own fire within that needs rekindling, guarding against the winds that would blow it out and leave us dark, cold and helpless. It is at this time that we find the lobe that binds us together with every other being that surrounds us on the planet. Eventually we find the sun still rises to meet in the morning and the stars continue to show us the way each night. The rivers still flow downstream into oceans that will never turn them away. The trees still reach upward every day praising the God that made them. We stand up straight and take a lesson from it all.


      What if you woke up one morning and realized that you were the only person left on the face of the earth? Who would you love? Why do we wait so long to start the journey that begins in the same place that it ends?Love, in all its endlessness, unboundedness and failed definitions is this experience.


      Love doesn’t ask why. It doesn’t come. It doesn’t go. It just is. It is not only in our hands, it is our hands. It isn’t only in our heart, it is what makes our heart beat every beat. It wraps itself around us so securely that all we need to do to survive against all odds is to recognize it as the very breath we just drew, and the last breath we just let go.



      It is curious that our own offenses should seem so much less heinous than the offenses of others. I suppose the reason is that we know all the circumstances that have occasioned them and so manage to excuse in ourselves what we cannot excuse in others. We turn our attention away from our own defects, and when we are forced by untoward events to consider them, find it easy to condone them. For all I know we are right to do this; they are part of us and we must accept the good and bad in ourselves together.


      But when we come to judge others, it is not by ourselves as we really are that we judge hem, but by an image that we have formed of ourselves from which we have left out everything that offends our vanity or would discredit us in the eyes of the world. To take a trivial stance: how scornful we are when we catch someone out telling a lie; but who can say that he has ever told not one, but a hundred?


      There is not much to choose between men. They are all a hotchpotch of greatness and tininess, of virtue and vice, of nobility and baseness. Some have more strength of character, or more opportunity, and so in one direction or another give their instincts freer play, but initially they are the same. For my part, I do not think I am any better or any worse than most people, but I know that if I set down every action in my life and every thought that has crossed my mind, the world would consider me a monster of depravity. The knowledge that these reveries are common to all men should inspire one with tolerance to oneself as well as to others. It is well also if they enable us to look upon our fellows, even the most eminent and respectable, with humor, and if they lead us to take ourselves not too seriously.



      Six minutes to six, said the clock over the information booth in New York’s Grand Central Station. The tall young Army lieutenant lifted his sunburned face and narrowed his eyes to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat. In six minutes he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 13 month, the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had sustained him unfailingly.


      Lieutenant Blandford remembered one day in particular, during the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of enemy’s planes. In one of his letters he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle he had received her answer: “Of course you fear…all brave men do. Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: ‘yeah, though I walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will hear no evil: for thou art with me.’…” He had remembered, and it had renewed his strength.


      Now he was going to hear her real voice. Four minutes to six.


      A girl passed close to him, and Lieutenant Blandford started. She was wearing a flower, but it was not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was only about 18, and Hollis Meynell had told him she was 30. “What of it?” he had answered. “I’m 32.” He was 29.


      His mind went back to that book he had read in the training camp. Of Human Bondage it was; and throughout the book were notes in a woman’s handwriting. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man’s heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the book plate: Hollis Meynell. He had got hold a New York City telephone book and found her address. He had written; she had answered. Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing.


      For 13 months she had faithfully replied. When his letters did not arrive, she wrote anyway, and now he believed that he loved her and that she loved him.


      But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. She had explained:” If you’re feeling for me has any reality, what I look like won’t matter. Suppose I’m beautiful. I’d always been haunted by the feeling that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I’m plain ( and you must admit that this is more likely), then I’d always fear that you were only going on writing because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don’t ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall make your decision.”


      One minute to six…he put hard on a cigarette. Then Lieutenant Blandford’s heart leaped.


      A young woman was coming towards him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls over her delicate ears. Her eyes were as blue as flowers, her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her pale-green suit, she was like springtime come alive.


      He started toward her, forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.


      “Going my way, soldier?” she murmured. He made one step closer to her. Then he saw Hollis Meynell.


      She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump; her thick ankled feet were thrust into low-heeled shoes.


      But she wore a red rose on her rumpled coat. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly. Blandford felt as though he were being split into two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his own; and there she stood. He could see her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible; her grey eyes had a warm twinkle.


      Lieutenant Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the worn copy of Human Bondage which was to identify him to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, a friendship that he had been and must ever be grateful…


      He squared his shoulders, saluted, and held the book out toward the woman, although even well while he spoke he fell the bitterness of disappointment. “I’m John Blandford, and you---you are Miss Meynell. May---may I take you to dinner?”


      The woman smiled. “I don’t know what this is all about, son,” she answered. “That young lady in the green suit, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if you ask me to go out with you, I should tell you that she’s waiting for you in that restraint across the street. She said it was some kind of test.”


    • 论文大全
    • 作文大全
    • 总结报告
    • 演讲
    • 心得
    • 讲话
    • 应用文档