初中英语散文

01
  ometimes people have to cope with many mistakes and failures in order to reach the successful finals. While others might succumb to failure, they tend to retreat and give in their efforts. Success often provides confidence and satisfaction, nevertheless failure companies with bitter, saddness, and suffering. It seems people have to learn through each experience, as success doesn‘t always falls from heaven.
  I remembered I used to fail on my vocabury test when I was in high school. I had problem to memorize new words which got lloose each day. I almost decided to give up English, but was obliged to one of my neighbour classmates who kept on sending small sheet for me. In the end of the semester, I found I had finished my vocabulary book which became a work force in reading English. I then realized that a new word came and left our brains for several times. Nobody is born as genius for success. Success tends to arrive after a serial of trials and failures.
  Of course, success brings confidence and victory. But, life is not always easy and comfortable. There are more difficulties than eases in the real life. It is likely that we have to face some failures ahead. Therefore, those who learn how to deal and endure failures will taste their success eventually.
  中心是失败是成功之母(Failure is the mother of success)

关于初中英语散文

02
  The night of the horse
  A newspaper ran a short story competition on famous tales from history. This is a story one of the students sent in.
  The soldier came down the stairs--two at a time. ‘Captain,they've gone,’ he cried, ‘They've disappeared-all of them. The plain is...’ But the captain of the guards was no longer listening. He was going up the stairs--three at a time. Seconds later, the captain stood on the high wall of the city of Troy. He looked down at the empty plain and, beyond it, at the empty sea. They've gone and we've won,' he said. ' The Greeks have tried for ten years to capture our city. Now they've sailed away. And they've taken everything with them.' 'Not everything, sir,' the soldier said. 'They've left their horse.' Outside the main gates of the city stood a huge horse made of wood. 'Ah, yes, 'the captain said,' that wooden horse. It's so big that they couldn't take it with them. Well, it's ours now. Get some help and pull it into the city. That won't be difficult. It's on wheels.' 'But why is it on wheels? ' The soldier asked. I think that maybe the Greeks want us to...' The captain interrupted him. ' You're a soldier,' he said. 'You don't have to think. You have to obey orders, and I'm giving you one now. Move that horse. 'And so the Trojans dragged it into the city with ropes.
  That night, in the main square of the city, all the citizens of Troy celebrated. They sang and danced around the horse, and made jokes about their enemies, the stupid Greeks. Then the Trojans made sure all the gates of the city were securely locked, and they all went to sleep, including the gate guards. By midnight, the square was empty, except for the giant horse. The six Greek soldiers waited for another hour, to be sure. Then, very quietly, they opened the secret door in the side of the horse and climbed out. No guards stopped them as they opened the main gates. Outside stood the Greek army. It had returned in the darkness when the citizens celebrated inside. Now the army enter the city. The Greeks seized the captain and dragged him away. For ten years, they could not capture the city by fighting. In one night, they succeeded in capturing it by a trick.

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03
  Human Life a Poem
  I think that, from a biological standpoint, human life almost reads like a poem. It has its own rhythm and beat, its internal cycles of growth and decay. It begins with innocent childhood, followed by awkward adolescence trying awkwardly to adapt itself to mature society, with its young passions and follies, its ideals and ambitions; then it reaches a manhood of intense activities, profiting from experience and learning more about society and human nature; at middle age, there is a slight easing of tension, a mellowing of character like the ripening of fruit or the mellowing of good wine, and the gradual acquiring of a more tolerant, more cynical and at the same time a kindlier view of life; then In the sunset of our life, the endocrine glands decrease their activity, and if we have a true philosophy of old age and have ordered our life pattern according to it, it is for us the age of peace and security and leisure and contentment; finally, life flickers out and one goes into eternal sleep, never to wake up again.
  One should be able to sense the beauty of this rhythm of life, to appreciate, as we do in grand symphonies, its main theme, its strains of conflict and the final resolution. The movements of these cycles are very much the same in a normal life, but the music must be provided by the individual himself. In some souls, the discordant note becomes harsher and harsher and finally overwhelms or submerges the main melody. Sometimes the discordant note gains so much power that the music can no longer go on, and the individual shoots himself with a pistol or jump into a river. But that is because his original leitmotif has been hopelessly over-showed through the lack of a good self-education. Otherwise the normal human life runs to its normal end in kind of dignified movement and procession. There are sometimes in many of us too many staccatos or impetuosos, and because the tempo is wrong, the music is not pleasing to the ear; we might have more of the grand rhythm and majestic tempo o the Ganges, flowing slowly and eternally into the sea.
  No one can say that life with childhood, manhood and old age is not a beautiful arrangement; the day has its morning, noon and sunset, and the year has its seasons, and it is good that it is so. There is no good or bad in life, except what is good according to its own season. And if we take this biological view of life and try to live according to the seasons, no one but a conceited fool or an impossible idealist can deny that human life can be lived like a poem. Shakespeare has expressed this idea more graphically in his passage about the seven stages of life, and a good many Chinese writers have said about the same thing. It is curious that Shakespeare was never very religious, or very much concerned with religion. I think this was his greatness; he took human life largely as it was, and intruded himself as little upon the general scheme of things as he did upon the characters of his plays. Shakespeare was like Nature itself, and that is the greatest compliment we can pay to a writer or thinker. He merely lived, observed life and went away.

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