關(guān)于英文抒情美文欣賞
關(guān)于英文抒情美文欣賞
閱讀是人們獲取信息的重要手段,更是學(xué)習(xí)英語的主要途徑之一。在我國,由于英語是非母語的學(xué)習(xí),在學(xué)習(xí)過程中沒有語言環(huán)境的熏陶,那么,閱讀便成為人們獲取信息、提高英語水平的有效途徑。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編帶來的關(guān)于英文抒情美文，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于英文抒情美文篇一
My father’s words不在場的教誨
Before they closed my father’s casket, I left him with a gift. After all he had given me, it was the least and best I could do. He passed away the day I got my 1,000th career hit, in the final game of the 2002 season, so at his side I left the ball from my milestone.
Besides the surreal and horrifying last moment of seeing him lying in permanent stasis, it was also the first time I could remember giving him a special game ball without him slipping a bill into my hands to congratulate me. His illness kept him out of whatever stadium I was playing in during the latter years of my career, though that didn’t stop him from patting me on the back from afar with a phone call or by what I could best describe as a “spiritual moment,” one when I would feel him sitting on my shoulder advising me while referencing a page out of his psychiatric repertoire.
I left baseball in 2005, with a Triple-A contract on the table from the San Diego Padres. I left not for physical reasons — I’d had a torn hamstring tendon in 2003, but it hadn’t affected my speed — but because it was my season for change. So I decided to walk away and once I did, like the vast majority of players, I was lost. It would be the first time since I learned to swing a bat that I would spend an entire summer without ever putting on a uniform. Even if you get a going-away party like the one the Phillies gave me on June 25th, 2005, when I threw out the first pitch of the Philadelphia-Boston game on a national TV, once the last partygoer walks out the door it’s no longer you against that fastball, it is you against yourself.
So you swim around trying to figure out what young, retired baseball players do with their lives. For me, the moment was stark without the guiding wisdom of my father, who could communicate with me with just a nod of his head.
Since my retirement, I have searched for the next passion that could fill the void that a life playing baseball creates when you are no longer putting on those spikes. It is a daunting journey, and many players never find that closure or that next love. But they keep looking, even if other parts of their lives are crumbling behind them. Maybe that was part of the problem: searching. I found myself agreeing when I heard John Locke, the main character on “Lost,” say, “I found it just like you find anything else, I stopped looking.”
Of course my father could never be replaced, though that didn’t stop me from trying to find ways to preserve his legacy, his worldview and his work. He was a practicing psychiatrist, but his passion was writing. He left behind a body of poetry that guides me now that I can’t ask him how he handled his sons when we wanted to sleep in our parents’ bed, or what the best course of action would be in dealing with a difficult business partner, or a racist coach.
I have always remembered those moments when my father would be spontaneously inspired to write a poem. He would just walk off and lock in, pen to paper. He could turn his already phenomenal vocabulary into music. When I found out that he started writing poetry at age 7, I was amazed. Outside of the original collection of poetry I have, he left behind two books he published on his own.
I didn’t stay lost forever. I found something that I wasn’t looking for: a voice through writing. Only later did I understand that this would be a bridge to understanding my father in another way. A way that led me to connect to a passion I didn’t realize we both shared.
Writing introduced me to people who were otherwise strangers and made them guests at my table. Words can appear to be part of a one-way mirror, but they are in fact surprisingly reciprocal — a dynamic I’m reminded of when I call upon my father through his poetry. In this way, my father stays with me. I can preserve his inspiring legacy more powerfully through writing than through the hummingbird pendant I wear around my neck to honor his homeland of Trinidad, or a picture or heirloom.
After my first column, I went as a guest to a friend’s church in Chicago. In the foyer, a woman who also knew our host was waiting. She asked me whether I had written that opinion piece on fear, steroids and baseball. I told her I had. She proceeded to tell me that she taught journalism at Northwestern and that she thought it was the quintessential opinion piece. I had already known that for me writing was passion and even therapy, but now I also thought that maybe I’d found my next profession.
Thankfully, I always knew my father was proud of me — before the major league debut, before the Ivy-league degree that was unfathomable to a generation of people who had only recently earned the right to vote. But despite living the dream of so many Americans and reaching its highest level, I have no doubt that he would be even prouder of what I am doing with my words. Words that I can leave for my son to read...one day.
關(guān)于英文抒情美文篇二
Manatee meeting邂逅海牛
Walking alone on a remote beach in southwest Florida, I was startled to hear splashes and a deep sigh coming from the water just offshore.
As I squinted in the direction of the sounds, the rounded gray back of a sea creature rose amid a red froth, rolled turbulently at the surface, then sank back into the Gulf. Moments later a broad nose emerged and exhaled in a great snuffling breath. It was a manatee, and by the looks of the reddish-colored water and the way it was thrashing, it was in trouble.
I had often watched manatees in these warm coastal waters, but I'd never seen one act like this before. Usually just their big nostrils appeared for a gulp of air as they foraged on sea grasses or swam slowly to greener underwater pastures. But I also knew how common it was for these lumbering giants to be gashed by boat propellers or entangled in crab traps.
I wanted to help, but what could I do? There was no one else on the beach, and the nearest phone to call the Marine Patrol was miles away.
Tossing my beach bag onto the sand, I began wading toward the animal, who continued to writhe as if in distress. I was still only waist deep when I came close enough to make out the bristly whiskers on the manatee's muzzle as it thrust up out of the sea. Then, to my surprise, a second muzzle, much smaller, poked up beside it.
I pushed on through the shoal water, but now the manatees were also moving toward me. Before I knew what was happening, I was in chest-deep water encircled by not one or two, but at least three blimplike bodies. I felt elated and slightly dizzy like the kid who is 'it' in a schoolyard game.
A bulbous snout emerged next to me. In the translucent water, I could clearly see the rest of the huge mammal, and there, nestled close behind her, a smaller version of her massive body.
Then, with incredible gentleness for such an enormous creature, the larger manatee nudged the little one with her paddle-shaped flipper and pushed it to the surface beside me. I wanted to reach out and touch the pudgy sea baby, but I hesitated, not knowing the rules of this inter-species encounter.
As the two slipped back underwater, two other manatees moved in from behind and slid by, one on either side, rubbing gently against my body as they swam past. They circled and repeated the action, this time followed by the mother and her calf. Emboldened by their overtures, I let my hand graze the side of the small manatee, now clinging to the mother's back, as they made their pass. Its skin felt rubbery and firm like an old fashioned hot water bottle.
The group completed several more circuits. Since they obviously enjoyed touching me, I began stroking each of them as they sidled by. When one of them rolled over for a scratch, I knew I had made the right move.
Eventually my new friends made their way off towards deeper water. I stood anchored to the spot, not wishing to break the spell, until finally the rising tide forced me back to shore.
I suppose I will never know exactly what took place that morning. I like to think that the manatees included me in their celebration of a birth; that I was welcomed to meet the newest member of their tribe. But over time I have come to cherish the experience without questions.
During that unexpected rendezvous, I felt more in tune with the rhythms of life on this vast planet than I ever have. The memory has become a song I sing to myself when I have the blues, a dance I do to celebrate joy.
And each year, during the last week of May, I pack a lunch and head for that isolated stretch of beach for a quiet little birthday picnic on the shore. After all, you never know who might show up for the party.
關(guān)于英文抒情美文篇三
Are men romantic?誰說男人不浪漫?
We too often define "romantic" in women's terms - sending flowers and cards, saving mementos and putting them in a box or scrapbook, gushing over chick romance movies, or listening to romantic songs all day.
Men may not do these things, but many men do something more romantic than all that: they keep their love in their hearts forever.
My survey of 3000 men and women worldwide who tried reunions with lost loves asked, "How long did it take for you to get over your lost love?" Responses from the men indicated that they took significantly longer to get over their lost loves than the women. Some of the men were not satisfied with the survey choices: the last choice listed was, "Over 10 years." Only men crossed out all the choices and wrote, "I never got over her!" While no doubt some women never got over their lost loves, either, only men wrote this comment on the survey.
Adolescent boys are "not supposed" to cry over lost loves. But many of my male participants reported that, after their high school girlfriends broke up with them, they cried in private, every night, for months.
My lost love reunion findings about romantic men paralleled results of my survey of adults who never tried lost love reunions. There were significantly more men than women who chose to fill out the survey, and they expressed strong feelings for their first loves, even though they had not contacted these women .
Posts on the Message Board of my web site, Lostlovers.com, are more represented by women than men. But appearances are misleading. Actually, there are more men who are members of my site than women. The men don't post as often as the women, but they are reading!
Men more often sign up for private phone consultations to talk about their lost loves than women.
But it is a rare men's magazine that will print a story about love and romance. The editors tell me that they think men are uninterested. Not so! When my research was quoted in Playboy, it generated a lot of responses.
On occasions where romance is expected , we should all remember to separate emotions from behaviors. Men may not make scrapbooks of mementos of their love experiences, but they are every bit as loving, loyal, and yes, romantic, as women - and sometimes more so!
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