有几个句子,还有几篇描写春天的美文,
when in spring the sweet showers fall
That pierce winter's drought to the root and all...
A Spring Morning
It was early in the spring morning.The sun was just rising out of the eastern horizon emitting steaks of red hue through the clouds and across the sky.Soon the campus was battled in the first rays of the sun.The lake the trees and the bamboos looked as if they were all gilded.The ground was covered with tender grasses and the beaded dewdrops stood on their tips and reflected the sunshine.
Birds flew about in the woods twittering restlessly.Some boy students who were absorbed in reading leaned against the trees with buds peeping out from within the gray barks.A couple of girl students read English aloud while walking up and down the gravel path around the lake where a sort of stream rose forming a thin mist.
It was really a morning of beauty of vigor and of hope.
Today,look at the blue sky,hear the grass growing beneath your feet,inhale the scent of spring,let the fruits of the earth linger on your tongue,reach out and embrace those you love.Ask Spirit to awaken your awareness to the sacredness of your sensory perceptions.
What a miracle it is.No matter how long the winter,how hard the frost or how deep the snow,Nature triumphs.No season is awaited so eagerly or welcomed so warmly as spring…Each year I am astonished by the wealth of flowers the season gives us:the subtlety of the wild primroses and violets,the rich palette of crocus in the parks,tall soldier tulips and proud trumpeting daffodils and narcissi.
Picture this:The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring; the soil was full of sunlight,and the sunlight full of red dust.The air one breathed was saturated with earthy smells,and the grass under foot had a reflection of blue sky in it.
Every spring is the only spring,a perpetual astonishment.
In those vernal seasons of the year,when the air is calm and pleasant,
it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out
and see her riches,and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.
Spring are not always the same.In some years,April bursts upon Virginia hills in one prodigious leap-and all the stage is filled at once,whole choruses of tulips,arabesques of forsythia,cadenzas of flowering plum.The trees grow leavws overnight.
In other years,spring tipoes in.It pauses,overcome by shyness,like my grandchild at the door,peeping in,ducking out of sight,giggling in the hallway."I know you are out there,"I cry."Come in”And April slips into our arms.
The dogwood bud,pale green,is inlaid with russet markings.Within the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled.One examines the bud in awe:Where were those seeds a month ago?The apples display their milliner's scraps of ivory silk,rose-tinged.All the sleeping things wake it,feel it,crumble April in your hands.
Look to the rue anemone,if you will,or the pea patch,or to the stubborn weed that thrusts its shoulders through a city street.This is how it was,is now,and ever shall be,the world without end.In the serene certainty of spring recurring,who fear the distant fall?