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¡¾Ó¢ÒëÖÐÑ¡¶ÎÁù¡¿Ô­ÎÄ£¨by Robert Frost£© The Gift Outright

The land was once ours before we were the land¡¯s. She was our land more than a hundred years. Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia;

But we were England¡¯s, still colonials,

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves

We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become. (Ô­ÔØ http://www.americaslibrary.gov ) ÒëÎÄ £¨Óà¹âÖÐÒ룩£º È«ÐĵķîÏ×

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Ô­ÎÄ£¨by Fancis Bacon£©

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of

business. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humour of a scholar.

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Happily lived Mankind in the peaceful Valley of Ignorance.

To the north, to the south, to the west and to the east stretched the ridges of the Hills Everlasting. A little stream of Knowledge trickled slowly through a deep worn gully. It came out of the Mountain of the Past. It lost itself in the Marshes of the Future.

It was not much, as rivers go. But it was enough for the humble needs of the villagers.

In the evening, when they had watered their cattle and had filled their casks, they were content to sit down to enjoy life.

The Old Men Who Knew were brought forth from the shady corners where they had spent their day, pondering over the mysterious pages of an old book.

They mumbled strange words to their grandchildren, who would have preferred to play with the pretty pebbles, brought down from distant lands.

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Ô­ÎÄ£º(by Francis Bret Hart)

But the faith of the majority proved to be securely based. Bill had scarcely ceased growling before we heard a quick step upon the porch, the trailing of a wet skirt, the door was flung open, and with flash of white teeth, a sparkle of dark eyes, and an utter absence of ceremony of diffidence, a

young woman entered, shut the door, and, panting, leaned back against it. ¡°Oh, if you please, I¡¯m Miggles!¡¬

And this was Miggles! This bright-eyed, full-throated young woman, whose wet gown of coarse blue stuff could not hide the beauty of the feminine curves to which it clung; from the chestnut crown of whose head, topped by a man¡¯s oilskin sou¡¯wester, to the little feet and ankles, hidden somewhere in the recesses of her boy¡¯s brogans, all was grace¡ªthis was Miggles, laughing at us, too, in the most airy, frank, offhand manner imaginable.

(½ÚÑ¡×ÔMiggles, Francis Bret Hart, Overland Monthly, Jun. 1869)

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Ô­ÎÄ£º(by Robert Browning) You¡¯ll Love Me Yet Robert Browning

You¡¯ll love me yet! ¨C and I can tarry Your love¡¯s protracted growing;

June rear¡¯d that bunch of flowers you carry From seeds of April¡¯s sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike,

And yield¡ªwhat you¡¯ll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like.

You¡¯ll look at least on love¡¯s remains, A grave¡¯s one violet:

Your look? ¨C that pays a thousand pains. What¡¯s death? You¡¯ll love me yet!

(Ô­ÔØPippa Passes, the Poetical Works of Robert Browning :Bells and Pomegranates, Ian Jack, Oxford University Press, 1991) ÒëÎÄ£º£¨ºúÊÊÒ룩 Äã×ÜÓа®ÎÒµÄÒ»Ìì ÂÞ²®ÌØ¡¤²ªÀÊÄþ Äã×ÜÓа®ÎÒµÄÒ»Ì죡

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Ô­ÎÄ£º(by William Shakespeare) Hamlet

(Act ¢ò, Scene ¢¢) Hamlet:

?I have of late¡ªbut wherefore I know not¡ªlost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o¡¯erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me¡ªno, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so. (Ô­ÔØShakespeare Made Easy, William Shakespeare, Hutchinson Publishing Group Ltd.,1986)

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