英语散文美文【热选4篇】

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英语散文阅读【第一篇】

Once upon a time there was a baby eagle living in a nest perched on a cliff overlooking a beautiful valley with waterfalls and streams, trees and lots of little animals, scurrying about enjoying their lives.

The baby eagle liked the nest. It was the only world he had ever known. It was warm and comfortable, had a great view, and even better, he had all the food and love and attention that a great mother eagle could provide. Many times each day the mother would swoop down from the sky and land in the nest and feed the baby eagle delicious morsels of food. She was like a god to him, he had no idea where she came from or how she worked her magic.

The baby eagle was hungry all the time, but the mother eagle would always come just in time with the food and love and attention he craved. The baby eagle grew strong. His vision grew very sharp. He felt good all the time.

Until one day, the mother stopped coming to the nest.

The baby eagle was hungry. "Im sure to die," said the baby eagle, all the time.

"Very soon, death is coming," he cried, with tears streaming down his face. Over and over. But there was no one there to hear him.

Then one day the mother eagle appeared at the top of the mountain cliff, with a big bowl of delicious food and she looked down at her baby. The baby looked up at the mother and cried "Why did you abandon me? Im going to die any minute. How could you do this to me?"

The mother said, "Here is some very tasty and nourishing food, all you have to do is come get it."

"Come get it!" said the baby, with much anger. "How?"

The mother flew away.

The baby cried and cried and cried.

A few days later, "Im going to end it all," he said. "I give up. It is time for me to die."

He didnt know his mother was nearby. She swooped down to the nest with his last meal.

"Eat this, its your last meal," she said.

The baby cried, but he ate and whined and whined about what a bad mother she was.

"Youre a terrible mother," he said. Then she pushed him out of the nest.

He fell.

Head first.

Picked up speed.

Faster and faster.

He screamed. "Im dying Im dying," he cried. He picked up more speed.

He looked up at his mother. "How could you do this to me?"

He looked down.

The ground rushed closer, faster and faster. He could visualize his own death so clearly, coming so soon, and cried and whined and complained. "This isnt fair!" he screamed.

Something strange happens.

The air caught behind his arms and they snapped away from his body, with a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced. He looked down and saw the sky. He wasnt moving towards the ground anymore, his eyes were pointed up at the sun.

"Huh?" he said. "What is going on here!"

"Youre flying," his mother said.

"This is fun!" laughed the baby eagle, as he soared and ped and swooped.

"Yes it is!" said the mother.

英语唯美散文【第二篇】

Writing is to hold back things that are going to leave I used to write about flowers in spring,before the night they were going to wither,and I wrote about rain in autumn, though it never comes back from the darkness.

’m always trying to keep them with me,and I always took me years to understand,that I could never keep some feelings which are only supposed to live for seconds forever with me,that I can take nothing back from time,that instant is longer than ever.

But I am still me, and for every I write,I already know the answer,but I can never refuse to start because of the fear of the endings.

the word, nonsense word that means nothing.

A word printed on the glass door of the shower room, probably the name of the brand of the glass or the design of the glass “Chinglish” word created by one of the factories which wanted to follow the fashion trend of adding an English name for their fashionable brand name, even without the original Chinese name beside it.

It was not large or an obvious color,but it was right up long as I lifted my head up,I could see it,and it was also the only point I could stare the iron curtain outside the window was open,and I could clearly see how light went through the glass door and reflected on the water stains,and how “Sinpolo” took the sunshine,absorbed its color,and created its own image on the there's no light,so I just looked up into the dark city through the glass,and the word showed up,with a fluorescence in my enjoyed playing with the lights,using my hand to interrupt them from their original route,using my phone to rearrange them,or just putting my hands under them and observing how lines on my palm were like mountains with shadows.

During those years in that house,I did two things most frequently:argued with my father,and read meaningless argued with my father fiercely every week,for things I can't even remember now,and,as a result,I cried times,I didn't mean to,but maybe my tears had their own was nothing worth my tears,I thought,so I rushed to the bathroom whenever this happened--no,not my own room,because I wanted neither my bed,my desk or my books to see me cry, nor did I want to remind myself of the arguments whenever I sat in front of my desk.

At this point,I should have been grateful for Sinpolo,of watching a boring and repeated teenager doing exactly the same thing for thousands of we stared at each other;I saw the river outside the building I lived in through it,but I didn't know what it saw through some occasions,at midnight,after finishing another novel full of bullshit,I went to the bathroom,still like a walking dead,with my soul sucked inside the I saw the words,or I should say then we saw each other,and I came back.

When I stared at it,I called its name in my 'pore,this is how I usually called it,but maybe it's wrong, maybe it should be sinpore, or sinpore, or just shengbaoluo,its Chinese did feel sad for it,as its name actually meant something like saint,holy Polo,but the factory made it as Sin they ever know what they were doing?Or maybe they knew,and this was what exactly they didn't think it’s very possible though.

But I called it my way anyway,when I wanted to calm myself down,especially when I wanted to stop myself from wasting H2O,I would silently read it for one thousand times in that moment,and amazingly,it would wipe out all strange thoughts,and I could have a blank brain to add some other things knew I was thinking too much every even when I was doing homework,the rain outside would flow through the window and onto my I lifted my head up,staring at one point in the void,and that voice of Sinpolo appeared,fixing my leak of emotions as usual.

This was not good,I would was relying on my mom could open up my head as the mother in Peter Pan does,she would find out that the word was occupying half of my brain.

After leaving the house,I used to ask my mom about it.“Do you remember the bathroom of our last house?” “Yes, ”my mother answered,with a curious look on her face,“then what?” “Do you still remember Sinpolo?” “No? What's that?” “It's the brand of the glass door in the bathroom.” “No, what's special about it?”“Well, nothing. ”

I felt tired in the middle of the conversation,and suddenly didn't want to share my feelings with her any could tell my mother thought I acted strangely,but this was because that by then she didn't realize,and not did I by then,which kind of person was in front of person was one of those least responsible ones among the crowd,those who were born to be too lazy to think,but still too eager to show off,those who had no intentions of targeting against anything so also had no intentions of knowing any,those who had extraordinary ability of senses like infants,and those who felt no sense of mission for it.

This person is not ready to take responsibility over her emotions now,and the word will take care of her and restrain her,until that day comes.

英语唯美散文【第三篇】

Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy - ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness ？ that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what ？ at least ？ I have found.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway over the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.

Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.

This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.

三种简单却又无比强烈的激情左右了我的一生：对爱的渴望，对知识的探索和对人类苦难的难以忍受的怜悯。这些激情像狂风，吹来吹去，方向不定，痛苦的深海，到了绝望的边缘。

我追求爱情，首先是因为它带来狂喜——我常常为之心醉神迷，牺牲所有的余生来换取几个小时这样的欣喜。下，我寻找爱，还因为它能减轻孤独感吗？看起来可怕的孤独中，一颗颤抖的意识世界的边缘而面前是是冰冷，无底的深渊。最后，我寻找爱，还因为在爱的结合我所看到的，在一个神秘的缩影中看到了圣人和诗人眼里天堂的愿景有想象。这就是我希望，虽然为人类生活似乎太好了，这是什么？至少？我发现。

以同样的激情我探索知识。我希望能够理解人类的心灵。我希望能够知道群星为何闪烁。我试图领悟毕达哥拉斯所景仰的数字力量，它支配通量。一点，但不多，我实现了。

爱和知识，只要有可能，通向着天堂。但是怜悯总把我带回尘世。痛苦呼喊的回声回荡在我的内心。，忍饥挨饿的孩子，惨遭压迫者摧残的受害者，被儿女们视为可憎的负担的无助的老人的儿子，和整个世界的孤独、贫穷和痛苦的人类的生命是什么。我渴望减少邪恶，但我不能，我也受到影响。

这就是我的一生。我发现它值得一过，如果有机会，我会很乐意再活给我。

名家经典英语散文【第四篇】

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life.

They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail drivens into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment add to it in his turn,， unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself.