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当整个月亮都升起来的时候-英语小短文

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当整个月亮都升起来的时候

我家附近有一座小山,我经常在晚上爬。城市的喧嚣是遥远的低语。在黑暗的寂静中,我分享蟋蟀的快乐和猫头鹰的自信。但它是戏剧的月出,我来看看。因为这使我恢复了城市过于自由的宁静和清晰。
 
我在这座山上看过很多moonsrises。每个人都有自己的心情。有广泛的,有信心收获月亮在秋天;害羞,朦胧的春月;孤独,冬天的月亮升起在一个漆黑的天空和烟的寂静涂抹橙色的月亮在夏季干枯的田野。每一个,就像美妙的音乐,激励我的心,然后使我的灵魂平静下来。
 
赏月是一门古老的艺术。对史前猎人的月亮正如他们的心跳。他们知道每29天它就会变得饱满而明亮,然后生病死亡,然后重生。他们知道在每次日落之后,月亮会显得更大更高。他们知道下弦月晚升起,直到日出时消失。从经验中了解月亮的图案一定是一件深奥的事情。
 
但是我们住在室内的人已经失去了与月亮的联系。街灯的强光和污染的灰尘遮蔽了夜空。虽然人类已经在月球上行走,但它变得不那么熟悉了。我们很少有人能说出今晚月亮会升起的时候。
 
不过,它牵引着我们。如果我们意外地遇到满月,地平线上又大又黄,我们无能为力,只能凝视它的威严的存在。月亮有礼物送给观看者。
 
七月的一个晚上,我在山中学习了它的礼物。我的车莫名其妙地抛锚了,我被困在那里,独自一人。太阳已经落山了,我注视着东边山脊外森林大火的明亮橙色光芒。突然,山脊似乎突然燃烧起来。然后,升起的月亮,又大又红,mishappen怪异的夏季大气灰尘和汗水,浮现出森林。
 
月亮的热气使大地扭曲,月亮似乎脾气暴躁,不完美。附近农舍的狗,仿佛这异样的光唤醒了草丛中的幽灵。
 
但是当月亮从山脊上升起时,它聚集了坚定和权威。黄金的脸色由红变橙,,以冷漠的黄色。它似乎吸收的光变暗的地球外,因为随着它的升起,山谷变得更加昏暗,月亮在地平线上的时候,满胸轮和象牙的颜色,山谷的景观深深的阴影。狗儿们确信这是熟悉的月亮,停止了吠叫。突然,我感到一种自信和喜悦,靠近笑声。
 
这出戏花了一个小时。一个月出是缓慢而微妙。为了观察它,我们必须进入一种更古老、更耐心的时间感。要看月亮无情地移动,就要在自己身上找到一种不同寻常的宁静。我们会联想到宇宙的浩瀚,地球的巨大自身存在的无限可能。我们感到渺小但有特权。
 
月光给我们看不到生活中更艰难的边缘。山坡像丝绸般光滑,银色和蓝色,还是在它的光的海洋。在月光下我们变得少计算,更接近我们的感情。
 
奇怪的事情发生在这样的时刻。在那个七月的晚上,我看了一两个月的月亮,然后回到车里,打开点火钥匙,听到发动机启动,就像几个小时前熄火一样神秘。我开车从山上下来,月亮靠在我的肩上,我的心平静了下来。
 
我经常回到升起的月亮。我被吸引住了,尤其是当事件使我的生活变得轻松和清晰。这种情况经常发生在秋天。然后我去我的山,等待猎人的月亮,巨大的黄金在地平线上,填补,与视觉的夜晚。
 
一只猫头鹰突然从山脊,无声而明亮的火焰。蟋蟀在草丛中高声鸣叫。我想起了诗人和音乐家,贝多芬的《月光奏鸣曲”和莎士比亚的洛伦佐,向在威尼斯商人,“月光多么甜蜜地睡在这个银行!我们坐在这里,让音乐的声音在我们的耳朵里蠕动,“我不知道他们的诗句和音乐,像蟋蟀的音乐,在某种程度上是月亮的声音。”。这样的想法,我的城市混乱融入宁静的夜晚。
 
恋人和诗人在夜里找到更深的意义。我们都倾向于对我们的起源和命运提出更深层的问题。我们沉迷于谜语,而不是在支配日光世界的非个人的几何学中。我们变成了哲学家和神秘主义者。
 
在月亮升起时,当我们放慢自己的思想,去天堂的步伐,它的魅力吸引了我们。我们打开情感的通风口

Peter Steinhart

    There is a hill near my home that I often climb at night. The noise of the city is a far-off murmur. In the hush of dark I share the cheerfulness of crickets and the confidence of owls. But it is the drama of the moonrise that I come to see. For that restores in me a quiet and clarity that the city spends too freely.

    From this hill I have watched many moonsrises. Each one had its own mood. There have been broad,confident harvest moons in autumn;shy, misty moons in spring;lonely, winter moons rising into the utter silence of an ink-black sky and smoke-smudged orange moons over the dry fields of summer. Each,like fine music, excited my heart and then calmed my soul.

    Moon gazing is an ancient art. To prehistoric hunters the moon overhead was as unerring as heartbeat. They knew that every 29 days it becomes full-bellied and brilliant, then sickened and died,and then was reborn. They knew the waxing moon appeared larger and higher overhead after each succeeding sunset. They knew the waning moon rose later each night until it vanished in the sunrise. To have understood the moon's patterns from experience must have been a profound thing.

      But we,who live indoors,have lost contact with the moon. The glare of street lights and the dust of pollution veil the night sky. Though men have walked on the moon,it grows less familiar. Few of us can say when the moon will rise tonight.

    Still, it tugs at our minds. If we unexpectedly encounter the full moon,huge and yellow over the horizon,we are helpless but to stare back at its commanding presence. And the moon has gifts to bestow upon those who watch.

    I learned about its gifts one July evening in the mountains. My car had mysteriously stalled, and I was stranded and alone. The sun had set, and I was watching what seemed to be the bright-orange glow of a forest fire beyond a ridge to the east. Suddenly, the ridge itself seemed to burst into flame. Then,the rising moon,huge and red and grotesquely mishappen by the dust and sweat of the summer atmosphere, loomed up out of the woods.

    Distorted thus by the hot breath of earth, the moon seemed ill-tempered and imperfect. Dogs at nearby farmhouses barked nervously, as if this strange light had wakened evil spirits in the weeds.

    But as the moon lifted off the ridge it gathered firmness and authority. It's complexion changed from red, to orange, to gold,to impassive yellow. It seemed to draw light ouf of the darkening earth, for as it rose, the hills and valleys below grew dimmer.By the time the moon stood clear of the horizon,full chested and round and the color of ivory, the valleys were deep shadows in the landscape. The dogs, reassured that this was the familiar moon,stopped barking. And all at once I felt a confidence and joy close to laughter.

    The drama took an hour. A Moonrise is slow and serried with subtleties. To watch it, we must slip into an older, more patient sense of time. To watch the moon move inexorably higher is to find an unusual stillness within ourselves. Our imaginations become aware of the vast distances of space, the immensity of the earth and huge improbability of our own existence. We feel small but privileged.

    Moonlight shows us none of life's harder edges. Hillsides seem silken and silvery, the oceans still and blue in its light.In moonlight we become less calculating,more drawn to our feelings.

    And odd things happen in such moments. On that July night,I watched the moon for an hour or two, and then got back into the car, turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine start,just as mysteriously as it had stalled a few hours earlier. I drove down from the mountains with the moon on my shoulder and peace in my heart.

    I return often to the rising moon. I am drawn especially when events crowd ease and clarity of vision into a small corner of my life. This happens often in the fall. Then I go to my hill and await the hunter's moon, enormous and gold over the horizon,filling,the night with vision.

    An owl swoops from the ridge top, noiseless but bright as flame. A cricket shrills in the grass. I think of poets and musicians.Of Beethoven's“Moonlight Sonata“and of Shakespeare,whose Lorenzo declaims in The Merchant of Venice,”How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! /Here will we sit and let the sounds of music/Creep in our ears." I wonder if their verse and music, like the music of crickets, are in some way voices of the moon. With such thoughts, my citified confusions melt into the quiet of the night.

    Lovers and poets find deeper meaning at night. We are all apt to pose deeper questions-about our origins and destinies. We indulge in riddles, rather than in the impersonal geometries that govern the daylight world. We become philosophers and mystics.

    At moonrise, as we slow our minds to the pace of the heavens, enchantment steals over us. We open the vents of feeling and exercise parts of our minds that reason locks away by day. We hear, across the distances, murmurs of ancient hunters and see a new the visions of poets and lovers of long ago.


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