简单好背的英语短篇美文

时间：2022-12-02 06:13:10 英语美文我要投稿

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简单好背的英语短篇美文

　　学习英语，背美文是一个不错的选择，接下来小编搜集了简单好背的英语短篇美文，仅供大家参考，希望帮助到大家。

简单好背的英语短篇美文

　　篇一：To follow the dream

　　Catch the star that holds your destiny, the one that forever twinkles within your heart. Take advantage of precious opportunities while they still sparkle before you. Always believe that your ultimate goal is attainable as long as you commit yourself to it.

　　Though barriers may sometimes stand in the way of your dreams, remember that your destiny is hiding behind them. Accept the fact that not everyone is going to approve of the choices you've made, have faith in your judgment, catch the star that twinkles in your heart, and it will lead you to your destiny's path. Follow that pathway and uncover the sweet sunrises that await you.

　　Take pride in your accomplishments, as they are stepping stones to your dreams. Understand that you may make mistakes, but don't let them discourage you. Value your capabilities and talents for they are what make you truly unique. The greatest gifts in life are not purchased, but acquired through hard work and determination.

　　篇二：Dusk

　　Looking into the sunset I can't help but notice

　　that despite her beauty,

　　a sense of struggle and hopeless surround the sky .

　　Deep inside you realize that this day is gone,

　　and everything that It had brought is lost forever.

　　Every thought,every action,every dream,every hope,

　　every sight,every sound is gone.

　　There is no chance of every being returned the same,

　　exactly the same.

　　For every moment has a limit to what it can capture,

　　Every memory has a limit to what it had retrieve.

　　And the colours in the sky try to entertain us.

　　one last act with painted smiles,

　　for they too know that nothing can be done to save the day.

　　So futile their attempt to comfort our fear of the night.

　　our horror as we try to find our way,

　　like children who wanderinto a forest and never return.

　　I am ingratiatedby the sunset because of

　　her sensitivity as she tries to push the darkness

　　back for just a moment more.

　　But like so many times before....to no avail!

　　篇三：Youth

　　Youth is not a time of life; itis a state of mind; it is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and suppleknees; it is a matter of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of theemotions; it is the freshness of the deep springs of life.

　　Youth means a temperamentalpredominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over thelove of ease. This often exists in a man of 60 more than a boy of 20. Nobodygrows old merely by a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals.

　　Yearsmay wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, fear,self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit back to dust.

　　Whether 60 or 16, there is inevery human being’s heart the lure of wonders, the unfailing appetite for what’snext and the joy of the game of living. In the center of your heart and myheart, there is a wireless station; so long as it receives messages of beauty,hope, courage and power from man and from the infinite, so long as you areyoung.

　　When your aerials are down, andyour spirit is covered with snows of cynicism and the ice of pessimism, thenyou’ve grown old, even at 20; but as long as your aerials are up, to catchwaves of optimism, there’s hope you may die young at 80.

　　篇四：Love Your Life

　　However mean your life is，meet it and live it ;do not shun it and call it hard names.

　　It is not so bad as you are.It looks poorest when you are richest.The fault-finder will find faults in paradise.Love your life，poor as it is.You may perhaps have some pleasant，thrilling，glorious hourss，even in a poor-house.The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man's abode;the snow melts before its door as early in the spring.I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there，and have as cheering thoughts，as in a palace.The town's poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any.

　　May be they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving.Most think that they are above being supported by the town;but it often happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means.which should be more disreputable.Cultivate poverty like a garden herb，like sage.Do not trouble yourself much to get new things，whether clothes or friends，Turn the old，return to them.Things do not change;we change.Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.

　　篇五：On Meeting the Celebrated

　　I have always wondered at the passion many people have to meet the celebrated. The prestige you acquire by being able to tell your friends that you know famous men proves only that you are yourself of small account. The celebrated develop a technique to deal with the persons they come across. They show the world a mask, often an impressive on, but take care to conceal their real selves. They play the part that is expected from them, and with practice learn to play it very well, but you are stupid if you think that this public performance of theirs corresponds with the man within.

　　I have been attached, deeply attached, to a few people; but I have been interested in men in general not for their own sakes, but for the sake of my work. I have not, as Kant enjoined, regarded each man as an end in himself, but as material that might be useful to me as a writer. I have been more concerned with the obscure than with the famous. They are more often themselves. They have had no need to create a figure to protect themselves from the world or to impress it. Their idiosyncrasies have had more chance to develop in the limited circle of their activity, and since they have never been in the public eye it has never occurred to them that they have anything to conceal. They display their oddities because it has never struck them that they are odd. And after all it is with the common run of men that we writers have to deal; kings, dictators, commercial magnates are from our point of view very unsatisfactory. To write about them is a venture that has often tempted writers, but the failure that has attended their efforts shows that such beings are too exceptional to form a proper ground for a work of art. They cannot be made real. The ordinary is the writer’s richer field. Its unexpectedness, its singularity, its infinite variety afford unending material. The great man is too often all of a piece; it is the little man that is a bundle of contradictory elements. He is inexhaustible. You never come to the end of the surprises he has in store for you. For my part I would much sooner spend a month on a desert island with a veterinary surgeon than with a prime minister.

　　篇六： Lake Of Autumn

　　I remember quite clearly now when the story happened. The autumn leaves were floating in 1)measure down to the ground, recovering the lake, where we used to swim like children, under the sun was there to shine. That time we used to be happy. Well, I thought we were. But the truth was that you had been 2)longing to leave me, not daring to tell me. On that precious night, watching the lake, vaguely 3)conscious, you said: “Our story is ending.”

　　The rain was killing the last days of summer. You had been killing my last breath of love, since a long time ago. I still don’t think I’m gonna make it through another love story. You took it all away from me. And there I stand, I knew I was going to be the one left behind. But still I’m watching the lake, vaguely conscious, and I know my life is ending.

　　篇七：Be Happy!

　　“The days that make us happy make us wise.”----John Masefield

　　when I first read this line by England’s Poet Laureate, it startled me. What did Masefield mean? Without thinking about it much, I had always assumed that the opposite was true. But his sober assurance was arresting. I could not forget it.

　　Finally, I seemed to grasp his meaning and realized that here was a profound observation. The wisdom that happiness makes possible lies in clear perception, not fogged by anxiety nor dimmed by despair and boredom, and without the blind spots caused by fear.

　　Active happiness---not mere satisfaction or contentment ---often comes suddenly, like an April shower or the unfolding of a bud. Then you discover what kind of wisdom has accompanied it. The grass is greener; bird songs are sweeter; the shortcomings of your friends are more understandable and more forgivable. Happiness is like a pair of eyeglasses correcting your spiritual vision.

　　Nor are the insights of happiness limited to what is near around you. Unhappy, with your thoughts turned in upon your emotional woes, your vision is cut short as though by a wall. Happy, the wall crumbles.

　　The long vista is there for the seeing. The ground at your feet, the world about you----people, thoughts, emotions, pressures---are now fitted into the larger scene. Everything assumes a fairer proportion. And here is the beginning of wisdom.

　　篇八：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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