优美句子英文翻译精选

　　Have you all the way
　　Hand in hand one step two step three step four step looking up at the sky, watching the stars is a two three four line ... ...
　　-- Preface
　　The growth of the road because of you, I am full of confidence; because of you, I was able to overcome setbacks; because of you, I can learn seriously. ＂ Like kids depend on their shoulder, like the tear on the face, like you like an angel to me gives me strength to rely on ＂. I count on you, you are my angel.
　　Now go back to childhood. Success in my behind your strict requirements and encourage. On that day, watching a TV show on the bike, I green with envy, screaming to learn to ride a bike. Your sweet voice said to me: ＂ really? That's really good. But you can adhere to? This is a very bitter. ＂ Listen to the advice is to both discourse, I am shilly-shally. When I take the matter seriously to announce my decision, your eyes full of my trust and encouragement.
　　At the beginning of the learning process, although I always wrestling but still insisted, Keren total limit. When that day I fell on his back, in a pleading look at you, I hope you can to encourage, comfort me. But you didn't do this, I am angry, sitting on the ground to say ＂ fell so much still to learn, I do not learn. ＂ Then, I saw your eyes flashed a disappointed look, then you can seriously say: ＂ their own requests can also give up halfway, how can you do other things, must have a beginning and an end?. ＂ On that day, I with wronged tears, do not know and fall how many ＂ bite the dust ＂, finally, ＂pays off, ＂ in your eyes severely under pressure, the goddess of victory comes to me -- I learned to ride a bicycle.
　　... ... The growth of the road because of you wonderful.
　　Thinking back now. As a grade 3 student I, the total pile up like a mountain hand, do not finish the homework, often to the middle of the night without sleep. You have finished the housework, always on time on my desk a cup of reeky coffee or milk, let me eat it while it's hot. When I let you go to sleep, you are always there are endless lies, endless excuses and reasons to accompany me, or get together and study together, discuss issues, until I finish my homework, I fall asleep, you didn't go to bed. Some people say the is like a cup of tea, bitter. But I want to say on the third is like a cup of coffee, is always hidden in the final. Because of you, the third is not bitter; because of you, I will not stand alone sad; because of you, the world is full of warmth.
　　You love to feed my soul and body, your milk is the source of my mind, you remain my boat of life. Have you as if carrying the sun, regardless of where it is sunny. Have you is my happiness, thank you this way with you, thank you, my mother, you are my initial force
　　The wisdom my 77-year-old father has passed on to me came more through osmosis than lectures. Pinning down a dad's influence to one true thing is like saying that the final inning is all that matters in a baseball game—when in reality, it's every play up until then that has gotten the team to where it is. And my dad has been there since the first pitch. From making ＂the best pancakes you kids have ever eaten＂ on Saturday mornings, to assuring tearful teenagers studying for finals that all they needed was a good night's sleep and everything would be better in the morning, my dad's dogged optimism shines through. It is a big part of the reason I recovered after a pelvis-smashing accident, when I was run over by a truck: My father assumed that I'd be jogging with him again。
　　He would also be the first to note that a grand slam by the last batter in a two-run game can change everything. In that he's a realist. But the thing about Dad is that he believes he is the guy who will hit that ball out of the park in the clutch play. Even though his first great-grandchild was born a year and a half ago, he's still that kid on the bench saying, ＂Put me in, Coach.＂
　　Old age hasn't slowed him, mainly because he doesn't think almost-80 is old. I should have taken a photo of my dad swimming in the lake in front of our cabin in Alaska last summer to show you what he looks like. He is strong, bald and about 5'10＂, 150 pounds, with a long French nose, blue eyes and a great smile. He had come for a visit and was training for a charity swim across the Hudson River in New York, where he lives. He wore his custom-fitted wetsuit (it zips up the back, so we had to help him into it)， but he still got so cold that when I hauled him, leaky goggles were all fogged up and I feared he'd die of hypothermia. We warmed him by stoking the woodstove and parking him, wrapped in a sleeping bag, as close to the open oven door as we could without cooking his legs。
　　＂Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad,＂ he'll say, when he reads this. ＂I was fine.＂ Which he was. He always is. He did complete the Hudson swim a month later in New York, but told me over the phone that next time he'll make sure his wetsuit fits correctly (in haste, he pulled it on backward) and buy new goggles. (They filled up with water and he bumped into Pete Seeger's moored sailboat—the folk singer is the race's organizer。)
　　If you ask my father whether or not his life has been hard, he will say he is a lucky guy. Not in a Hollywood way—he means the kind of happiness that comes from sharing a well-cooked family meal, taking a good long run or growing a perfect tomato. Did I mention that he used to run marathons before his knee replacement surgery? He's the one who convinced me I could do it, too. ＂Anyone can run a marathon,＂ he said, ＂as long as you put in your time training.＂
　　My father was born in 1933. His London childhood took a turn at the beginning of World War II: His father enlisted in the French Army and was captured by the Germans and spent the war in a prison camp. My dad and his mother and sister were shipped off to New Jersey to live with relatives. His mother suffered from depression, and Dad went to boarding school in New England from the sixth grade on。
　　Yet in all Dad's dinner table stories, and there have been many, he turned them into great stories。
　　These days the favorite saying of the family patriarch his grandchildren have dubbed Papa Bob is ＂And so it goes,＂ from the writer Kurt Vonnegut. He repeats it often, especially when he has suffered a setback—anything from spraining an ankle skiing to facing my mother's death. During her illness (she had leukemia) he did his best to cheer her up. My sister, who lives next door to Dad, sometimes complained that he was in denial。
　　What good would it have done anyone if my father had embraced the sorrow of losing his wife of 49 years just as he was thinking about retiring to spend more time with her? Sometimes wishing days are happy can make them so. As much as it drove his daughters crazy, I'm sure my mother's last months were better because my father was planning a family vacation with all the grandkids to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary。
　　And honestly? He knew what was happening and chose to face it without undue sadness or fear. When I was 10, a neighbor was hit by a delivery truck and killed while riding her bicycle to play at the school ballfields. A few weeks after that funeral, Dad and I played catch in the backyard. ＂Two hands, keep your eye on the ball,＂ he coached as we tossed it back and forth over the clothesline. (I've been following that advice all my life. A woman could do worse than keep her eye on the ball of what matters in life and hold on to it tightly, with two hands。) Anyway, I asked him why that awful truck had killed my friend. It was so unfair. Dad said, ＂Life's not fair.＂ He didn't say it with any bitterness at all. He said it like Satchel Paige said, ＂You win a few, you lose a few. Some get rained out.＂ Even an optimist like my dad understands that some things don't turn out right. The difference is, he knows it is your response to hard times that counts, and his is always to land on his feet, grateful to still be here, with a story to tell。
　　After a family dinner the other night, Papa Bob regaled us all with embellished versions of his recent and first-ever skyping adventure. He said he was dizzy from the altitude-＂12,000 feet!＂—but the instructor sort of nudged him out of the plane. ＂Sixty-five seconds of free falling,＂ he said. ＂I loved it. I should have been a paratrooper.＂ Then he said, ＂I didn't even dent this new titanium knee.＂
　　He loves getting cards in the mail, and usually I'm late, so instead I call him on Father's Day. But this year I've decided to be early for once. Before he takes another skype or a frigid lake swim, I want to let him know how much he means to me. Dad, thank you—for all of it. For playing catch in the backyard, the stories, the homegrown tomatoes, the running shoes, college, the first-aid kits (he likes us to be prepared for his visits) and mostly for your enduring faith that everything will be OK. It is, because you are my dad.
　　英语美文欣赏－永远的关系
　　If somebody tells you, ＂ I'll love you for ever, ＂ wIll you belIeve It?
　　I don't thInk there's any reason not to. we are ready to belIeve such commItment at the moment, whatever change may happen afterwards. as for the belIef In an everlastIng love, that's another thIng.
　　then you may be asked whether there Is such a thIng as an everlastIng love. I'd answer I belIeve In It. but an everlastIng love Is not Immutable.
　　you may unswervIngly love or be loved by a person. but love wIll change Its composItIon wIth the passage of tIme. It wIll not remaIn the same. In the course of your growth and as a result of your Increased experIence, love wIll become somethIng dIfferent to you.
　　In the begInnIng you belIeved a fervent love for a person could last IndefInItely. by and by, however,＂ fervent＂ gave way to ＂ prosaIc＂ . precIsely because of thIs change It became possIble for love to last. then what was meant by an everlastIng love would eventually end up In a sort of Interdependence.
　　we used to InsIst on the dIfference between love and lIkIng. the former seemed much more beautIful than the latter. one day, however, It turns out there's really no need to make such dIfference. lIkIng Is actually a sort of love.by the same token, the everlastIng Interdependence Is actually an everlastIng love.
　　I wIsh I could belIeve there was somebody who would love me for ever. that's, as we all know, too romantIc to be true. Instead, It wIll more often than not be a case of lastIng relatIonshIp.
　　And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty.
　　And he answered:
　　Where shall you seek beauty, and shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?
　　And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?
　　The aggrieved and injured say, ＂Beauty is kind and gentle.
　　Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.＂
　　And the passionate say, ＂Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.
　　Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.＂
　　The tired and the weary say, ＂Beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.＂
　　But the restless say, ＂We have heard her shouting among the mountains.
　　And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.＂
　　At night the watchmen of the city say, ＂Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.＂ And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, ＂We have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.＂
　　In winter say the snow-bound, ＂She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hill.＂
　　And in the summer heat the reapers say, ＂We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.＂
　　All these things have you said of beauty.
　　Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,
　　And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.
　　It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth.
　　But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.
　　It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,
　　But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.
　　It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,
　　But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.
　　People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.
　　But you are life and you are the veil.
　　Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
　　But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
　　Forgotten and Forgiven
　　As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon, my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day I'd looked forward to for weeks: Miss Pace's fourth-grade, end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week, and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated ＂party Friday＂ had arrived.
　　I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom's chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block, and I knew they'd be a hit with my classmates. But two o'clock passed, and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone, dropping off their offerings of punch and crackers, chips, cupcakes and brownies. My mother was missing in action.
　　＂Don't worry, Robbie, she'll be along soon,＂ Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past.
　　Around me, the noisy party raged on, but I wouldn't budge from my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax me away, but I stayed out, holding out hope that the familiar family car would round the corner, carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm.
　　The three o'clock bell soon jolted me from my thoughts and I dejectedly grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled out the door for home.
　　On the four-block walk to our house, I plotted my revenge. I would slam the front door upon entering, refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me, and vow never to speak to her again.
　　The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother's absence, but found none. My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage. For the first time in my life, my mother had let me down.
　　I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.
　　＂Robbie,＂ she called out a bit urgently. ＂Where are you?＂
　　I could then hear her darting frantically from room to room, wondering where I could be. I remained silent. In a moment, she mounted the steps—the sounds of her footsteps quickening as she ascended the staircase.
　　When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed, I didn't move but instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.
　　＂I'm so sorry, honey,＂ she said. ＂I just forgot. I got busy and forgot—plain and simple.＂
　　I still didn't move. ＂Don't forgive her,＂ I told myself. ＂She humiliated you. She forgot you. Make her pay.＂
　　Then my mother did something completely unexpected. She began to laugh. I could feel her shudder as the laughter shook her. It began quietly at first and then increased in its velocity and volume.
　　I was incredulous. How could she laugh at a time like this? I rolled over and faced her, ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.
　　But my mother wasn't laughing at all. She was crying. ＂I'm so sorry,＂ she sobbed softly. ＂I let you down. I let my little boy down.＂
　　She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl. I was dumbstruck. I had never seen my mother cry. To my understanding, mothers weren't supposed to. I wondered if this was how I looked to her when I cried.
　　I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when I'd skinned knees or stubbed toes, times when she knew just the right thing to say. But in that moment of tearful plight, words of profundity abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.
　　＂It's okay, Mom,＂ I stammered as I reached out and gently stroked her hair. ＂We didn't even need those cookies. There was plenty of stuff to eat. Don't cry. It's all right. Really.'
　　My words, as inadequate as they sounded to me, prompted my mother to sit up. She wiped her eyes, and a slight smile began to crease her tear-stained cheeks. I smiled back awkwardly, and she pulled me to her.
　　We didn't say another word. We just held each other in a long, silent embrace. When we came to the point where I would usually pull away, I decided that, this time, I could hold on, perhaps, just a little bit longer.