高中經(jīng)典英語美文摘抄
高中經(jīng)典英語美文摘抄
在英語教學(xué)中,從小學(xué)到初中再到高中老師都要求學(xué)生課后或課堂中做一些摘抄的作業(yè),為什么要摘抄呢?摘抄主要是對學(xué)生的寫作有很大的幫助。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理的高中經(jīng)典英語美文，歡迎閱讀!
高中經(jīng)典英語美文篇一
A Promise of Spring
Early in the spring, about a month before my grandpa's stroke, I began walking for an hour every afternoon. Some days I would walk four blocks south to see Grandma and Grandpa. At eighty-six, Grandpa was still quite a gardener, so I always watched for his earliest blooms and each new wave of spring flowers.
I was especially interested in flowers that year because I was planning to landscape my own yard and I was eager to get Grandpa's advice. I thought I knew pretty much what I wanted -- a yard full of bushes and plants that would bloom from May till November.
It was right after the first rush of purple violets in the lawns and the sudden blaze of forsythia that spring that Grandpa had a stroke. It left him without speech and with no movement on his left side. The whole family rallied to Grandpa. We all spent many hours by his side. Some days his eyes were eloquent -- laughing at our reported mishaps, listening alertly, revealing painful awareness of his inability to care for himself. There were days, too, when he slept most of the time, overcome with the weight of his approaching death.
As the months passed, I watched the growing earth with Grandpa's eyes. Each time I was with him, I gave him a garden report. He listened, gripping my hand with the sure strength and calm he had always had. But he could not answer my questions. The new flowers would blaze, peak, fade, and die before I knew their names.
Grandpa's illness held him through the spring and on, week by week, through summer. I began spending hours at the local nursery, studying and choosing seeds and plants. It gave me special joy to buy plants I had seen in Grandpa's garden and give them humble starts in my own garden. I discovered Sweet William, which I had admired for years in Grandpa's garden without knowing its name. And I planted it in his honor.
As I waited and watched in the garden and by Grandpa's side, some quiet truths emerged. I realized that Grandpa loved flowers that were always bloom; he kept a full bed of roses in his garden. But I noticed that Grandpa left plenty of room for the brief highlights. Not every nook of his garden was constantly in bloom. There was always a treasured surprise tucked somewhere.
I came to see, too, that Grandpa's garden mirrored his life. He was a hard worker who understood the law of the harvest. But along with his hard work, Grandpa knew how to enjoy each season, each change. We often teased him about his life history. He had written two paragraphs summarizing fifty years of work, and a full nine pages about every trip and vacation he'd ever taken.
In July, Grandpa worsened. One hot afternoon arrived when no one else was at his bedside. He was glad to have me there, and reached out his hand to pull me close.
I told Grandpa what I had learned -- that few flowers last from April to November. Some of the most beautiful bloom for only a month at most. To really enjoy a garden, you have to plant corners and drifts and rows of flowers that will bloom and grace the garden, each in its own season.
His eyes listened to every word. Then, another discovery: "If I want a garden like yours, Grandpa, I'm going to have to work." His grin laughed at me, and his eyes teased me.
"Grandpa, in your life right now the chrysanthemums are in bloom. Chrysanthemums and roses." Tears clouded both our eyes. Neither of us feared this last flower of fall, but the wait for spring seems longest in November. We knew how much we would miss each other.
Sitting there, I suddenly felt that the best gift I could give Grandpa would be to give voice to the testimony inside both of us. He had never spoken of his testimony to me, but it was such a part of his life that I had never questioned if Grandpa knew. I knew he knew.
"Grandpa," I began -- and his grip tightened as if he knew what I was going to say -- "I want you to know that I have a testimony. I know the Savior lives. I bear witness to you that Joseph Smith is a prophet. I love the Restoration and joy in it." The steadiness in Grandpa's eyes told how much he felt it too. "I bear witness that President Kimball is a prophet. I know the Book of Mormon is true, Grandpa. Every part of me bears this witness."
"Grandpa," I added quietly, "I know our Father in Heaven loves you." Unbidden, unexpected, the Spirit bore comforting, poignant testimony to me of our Father's love for my humble, quiet Grandpa.
A tangible sense of Heavenly Father's compassionate awareness of Grandpa's suffering surrounded us and held us. It was so personal and powerful that no words were left to me -- only tears of gratitude and humility, tears of comfort.
Grandpa and I wept together.
It was the end of August when Grandpa died, the end of summer. As we were choosing flowers from the florist for Grandpa's funeral, I slipped away to Grandpa's garden and walked with my memories of columbine and Sweet William. Only the tall lavender and white phlox were in bloom now, and some baby's breath in another corner.
高中經(jīng)典英語美文篇二
Spring's Here -- Finally
The waterfall behind our house at the lower end of Lake Edenwold is a thundering cascade of spring runoff from the melting snows of winter. It's been a three-week drum roll leading up to today, when the cymbal will crash and the earth will arrive at that point in its orbit around the sun where it will be light for as many hours as it will be dark.
Today is really the celestial climax to a prelude whose crescendo has been growing now for a month in the forests and lakes all around us. Beginning in late February and through the month of March on my Saturday morning hikes through the lower Highlands, I have watched spring slowly unfold before my eyes.
A pair of hooded mergansers suddenly appeared on our lake earlier this month and I heard the unmistakable call of a wood duck. Several thousand feet overhead, an enormous, migratory flock of Canada geese undulated like strands of limp black thread suspended against a steel gray sky; their wild honking clearly audible in spite of the flock's altitude.
Just a little more than one week ago, as I came to a place in the woods where the forest suddenly yields to what is a wild flower meadow in the late spring and summer, the bare trees were filled with hundreds of red-winged blackbirds, their cacophonous chatter filling the otherwise still morning air. It was an eerie harbinger of spring, reminiscent of the Alfred Hitchcock movie "The Birds." Later that same afternoon, a small flock of cedar waxwings, another migratory species of songbirds stopped for a rest in a nearby tree only two blocks from our house.
Man has always been fascinated with the arrival of spring. King Solomon weighed in on it when he wrote these words from his "Song" in the Old Testament: "See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance."
The arrival of spring has always marked a rebirth of sorts, not just for nature but also for us humans. It is a time of awakening, a time to forget the old and to embrace the new.
For most kids it's simply a time when they can play outside longer, riding their new bicycles and skateboards or shooting hoops in driveway basketball courts. For some adults it can be a serious time, a release from the seasonal depression caused by the reduced hours of sunlight during the dark months of winter.
But for most of us, it is a release from the mundane things that after three months have added up to the point where we are all just ready for a change. You know: things like having to wear layers of heavy clothing, white-knuckle drives to work on icy roads, and leaving home mornings in the dark only to drive back home again in darkness later the same afternoon.
The crocus and daffodils will soon start peeking their heads above last year's pine bark nuggets and what's left of the winter snow still piled in the beds under the white pines out by the road.
They are yet another prelude to the appearance of more flowers and birds: the warblers and the tanagers that will shortly appear in the trees around my home.
I can't wait to inhale the aromas of things like the warming earth, new mown grass, and fresh piles of damp cedar mulch. And I am looking forward to that first morning when I can sit outside on my deck with a cup of coffee and feel comfortable without having to don a fleece or a heavy woolen shirt.
Whatever your passion in life, take time like the busy King Solomon to pause from it for a moment over the next few weeks and just sit and watch and enjoy the spectacle of spring unfold before your eyes.
And give thanks.
高中經(jīng)典英語美文篇三
Away in a Manger
One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back seat: "Dad," began my five-year-old son, Patrick, "how come I"ve never seen you cry?"
Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn"t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.
I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.
For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.
Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.
So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God"s way of healing people when they"re sad. "I"m glad you can cry whenever you"re sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."
Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.
"I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of "Away in a Manger" during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.
My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son"s first solo.
Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."
Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.
"Okay," Patrick said. "I"ll do it."
From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner"s Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.
For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.
Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.
Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.
There was eternity in Patrick"s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.
His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.
After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."
As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.
I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.
He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.
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