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.