英语散文名篇朗诵

英语散文名篇朗诵（通用15篇）

　　在日复一日的`学习、工作或生活中，大家都写过散文吗？广义上的散文是指不追求押韵和句式工整的文章体裁，与韵文、骈文相对。相信很多人都觉得散文很难写吧？以下是小编整理的英语散文名篇朗诵，仅供参考，欢迎大家阅读。

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇1

　　Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

　　I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy---ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of my life for a few hours for this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness---that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what---at last---I have found.

　　With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.

　　Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always it brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.

　　This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇2

　　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.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇3

　　From tramp to King of Comedy, Chaplin

　　About the year 1900, a small, dark-haired boy was often seen waiting outside the back entrances of London theatres. He looked thin and hungry but his blue eyes were determined. Despite his painfully hard childhood, the boy knew how to make people laugh. He could sing and dance and was hoping to make a living in show business.

　　When he couldn't get work the boy wandered about the city streets like a tramp. He found food and shelter wherever he could. Sometimes he was sent away to a home for children who had no parents. He was cold and miserable there and the children were scolded and punished for the slightest fault. He hated it.

　　Thirty years later he was accepting the hospitality of kings. Everyone wanted to meet him. Pictures show him in the company of men like Churchill, Einstein and Gandhi. He had become almost a royal figure in the bright new world of the cinema – Charlie Chaplin, the king of comedy.

　　Chaplin's life was a continuous adventure. In 1889, Chaplin was born in London, England to parents who both worked in theater. His father's death from drinking too much and mother's illness left him in poverty for most of his childhood. However, Chaplin didn't get lost in the poverty. In fact, he had set a goal for himself at a young age: to become the most famous person in the world.

　　When Chaplin was five years old his mother suddenly lost her voice during a performance and had to leave the stage. To help his mother, little Chaplin went on stage and sang a well-known song at that time, "Jack Jones". Halfway through the song a shower of money poured onto the stage. Chaplin stopped singing and told the audience he would pick up the money first and then finish the song. The audience laughed. This was only the first of millions of laughs in Chaplin's legendary career.

　　Lack of education did not hold Chaplin back from developing the special talent locked inside him. He took his courage and went to see one of the top theatrical agents in London. With no experience at all, he was offered the plum part of Billy – the paperboy in a new production of "Sherlock Holmes". "Sherlock Holmes" opened on July 27, 1903 at an enormous theatre. Chaplin seemed to change overnight. It was as if he had found the thing he was meant to do: to be an actor.

　　Cinema was born in the same year as Chaplin. When people still believed it was a passing fad and would never replace live shows, Chaplin was determined to master this new medium, for it would offer him the chance of money and success. Chaplin's first film, released in February 1914, was called "Making a living". The film was well received by the public but didn't satisfy Chaplin. After some disappointments and anxieties, he created his classical character -- "the little tramp". From his very first appearance, the mild little man brought laughter to people's faces. With the black moustache, wide-open eyes, round black hat and shoes too large for his feet, he makes all kinds of stupid mistakes. He is always in trouble. Yet he dreams of greatness. He makes audience laugh with his crazy attempts to escape his cruel fate. He finds surprising ways out of every difficulty and life never quite destroys him. The little tramp is not very different from the cold, homeless, poorly dressed child who refused to despair. Like the child he is weak and frightened, but he never gives up.

　　The tramp became a huge success. By the time he was thirty Chaplin was the greatest, best known, and best loved comedy actor in the world. He received thousands of dollars for each film he made and had formed his own filmmaking company. But he continued his pursuit of perfection in art. When making the film "The Immigrant", Chaplin spent four days and four nights to cut the film to the required length. He viewed each scene perhaps fifty times before he decided exactly where to cut.

　　Explaining his success, Chaplin once wrote, "You have to believe in yourself. That's the secret. Even when I was in the children's home, when I was wandering the streets trying to find enough to eat to keep alive, even then I thought of myself as the greatest actor in the world." Through hard times and glorious days he always believed in himself and never lost faith. It is through this self-confidence that Chaplin made people look at the world more positively despite his own troubles. And even though his films were in black and white, he put a lot of color into everyone's life.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇4

　　To respect my work, my associates and myself. To be honest and fair with them as I expect them to be honest and fair with me. To be a man whose word carries weight. To be a booster, not a knocker; a pusher, not a kicker; a motor, not a clog.

　　To base my expectations of reward on a solid foundation of service rendered; to be willing to pay the price of success in honest effort. To look upon my work as opportunity, to be seized with joy and made the most of, and not as painful drudgery to be reluctantly endured.

　　To remember that success lies within myself; in my own brain, my own ambition, my own courage and determination. To expect difficulties and force my way through them, to turn hard experiences into capital for future struggles.

　　To interest my heart and soul in my work, and aspire to the highest efficiency in the achievement of results. To be patiently receptive of just criticism and profit from its teaching. To treat equals and superiors with respect, and subordinates with kindly encouragement.

　　To make a study of my business duties; to know my work from the ground up. To mix brains with my efforts and use system and method in all I undertake. To find time to do everything needful by never letting time find me or my subordinates doing nothing. To hoard days as a miser does dollars, to make every hour bring me dividends in specific results accomplished. To steer clear of dissipation and guard my health of body and peace of mind as my most precious stock in trade.

　　Finally, to take a good grip on the joy of life; to play the game like a gentleman; to fight against nothing so hard as my own weakness, and endeavor to grow in business capacity, and as a man, with the passage of every day of time.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇5

　　My grandfather died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying with us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father‘s office, which we referred to as "the back room." She carried with her a powerful aroma. I don‘t know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barreled, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtains and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to make the pungent odor go away.

　　This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the infamous pea incident.

　　It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fancies place to eat in all of Providence. My grandmother, my mother, and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas.

　　I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now.

　　"Eat your peas," my grandmother said.

　　"Mother," said my mother in her warning voice. "He doesn‘t like peas. Leave him alone."

　　“My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eye and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be 14)thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eye, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life: "I‘ll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas."

　　I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat.

　　My mother was livid. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who has thrown down an unbeatable trump card. "I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can‘t stop me." My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold medal.

　　I, of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought.

　　My grandmother left for Aunt Lillian‘s a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years.

　　"You ate them for money," she said. "You can eat them for love."

　　Oh, despair! Oh, devastation! Now, too late, came the dawning realization that I had unwittingly damned myself to a hell from which there was no escape.

　　"You ate them for money. You can eat them for love."

　　What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time: "You ate them for money," she says. "You can eat them for love."

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇6

　　A Typical Day

　　As a high-school teacher, I have understandably become concerned not just about the future of our profession but the public perception of it as well.I decided recently, therefore, to take advantage of the so-called "spare" time that I have in my work day to take a leisurely stroll around the building and see for myself just what goes on outside my own classroom.

　　The first door I passed was that of a math teacher who was providing individual attention to a student who was quite obviously having some difficulty.The student‘s face said it all: frustration, confusion, quiet desperation.The teacher remained upbeat, offering support and encouragement.

　　"Let‘s try again, but we‘ll look at it from a slightly different point of view," she said and proceeded to erase the chalkboard in search of a better solution.

　　Further down the hall, I came across the doorway of one of our history teachers.As I paused to eavesdrop, I witnessed a large semicircle of enthusiastic students engaged in a lively debate regarding current Canadian events and issues.The teacher chose to take somewhat of a back-seat role, entering the fray only occasionally to pose a rhetorical question or to gently steer the conversation back toward the task at hand.They switched to role-playing and smaller groups of students chose to express the viewpoints of various provinces.The debate grew louder and more intense.The teacher smiled and stepped in to referee.

　　Passing the gym balcony, I looked down to see a physical education teacher working with a group of boys on a basketball passing drill.

　　"Pass and cut away!" he shouted."Set a screen.Hit the open man."

　　Suddenly, there was a break in the action.

　　"Hold on, guys," he said."Do you guys really understand why we‘re doing this drill?"

　　A mixture of blank stares and shrugged shoulders provided the answer, so he proceeded to take a deep breath and explain not only the purpose of the drill, but exactly how it fit into the grand scheme of offense and team play.A few nods of understanding and the group returned to its task with renewed vigor.

　　The next stop on my journey was the open door of a science lab where, again, a flurry of activity was taking place.I watched intently as a group of four students explained and demonstrated the nature and design of a scientific invention they had created.As they took turns regaling their small but attentive audience about the unique features of their project, a teacher was nearby, busy videotaping their entire presentation.

　　As I was leaving, I heard her say, "Okay, let‘s move the television over here and see how you did."

　　Finally, on the way back to my room, I couldn‘t help but investigate the low roar coming from down the hall.Music blaring, feet stomping, instructions straining to be heard above the din.Dancers of every shape and size were moving in seemingly random directions, although their various destinations were obviously quite well-rehearsed.Good things were happening here: hard work, sweat, intense concentration.And then, a mistake.One of the dancers offered an explanation, which led to a discussion among several of them.The dance teacher intervened and facilitated a resolution.A half-hearted plea by one of the students for a quick break fell on deaf ears.

　　"We‘ll have our break when we get this part right," she called out.A brief pep talk imploring them to push themselves just a little further seemed to create some new energy, and once again the place was hopping."Now, from the top . . ."

　　My excursion complete, I returned to my corner of the school and reflected on what I had observed.Nothing surprising really.It was essentially what I had expected to find: goal-setting, problem-solving, teamwork, critical analysis, debate, discussion.In short, learning.

　　The only thing that you may have found surprising, but I didn‘t, was that when I began my journey, the regular school day had already ended an hour before.

　　Reprinted by permission of Brian Totzke (c) 1997 from Chicken Soup for the Teacher‘s Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen.In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.All rights reserved.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇7

　　Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

　　I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy - ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness ? that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what ? at least ? I have found.

　　With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway over the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.

　　Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.

　　This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇8

　　The stage is more beholding to love， than the life of man. For as to the stage， love is ever matter of comedies， and now and then of tragedies； but in life it doth much mischief； sometimes like a siren， sometimes like a fury. You may observe， that amongst all the great and worthy persons （whereof the memory remaineth， either ancient or recent） there is not one， that hath been transported to the mad degree of love： which shows that great spirits， and great business， do keep out this weak passion. You must except， nevertheless， Marcus Antonius， the half partner of the empire of Rome， and Appius Claudius， the decemvir and lawgiver； whereof the former was indeed a voluptuous man， and inordinate； but the latter was an austere and wise man： and therefore it seems （though rarely） that love can find entrance， not only into an open heart， but also into a heart well fortified， if watch be not well kept. It is a poor saying of Epicurus， Satis magnum alter alteri theatrum sumus； as if man， made for the contemplation of heaven， and all noble objects， should do nothing but kneel be- fore a little idol， and make himself a subject， though not of the mouth （as beasts are）， yet of the eye； which was given him for higher purposes.

　　It is a strange thing， to note the excess of this passion， and how it braves the nature， and value of things， by this； that the speaking in a perpetual hyperbole， is comely in nothing but in love. Neither is it merely in the phrase； for whereas it hath been well said， that the arch-flatterer， with whom all the petty flatterers have intelligence， is a man`s self； certainly the lover is more. For there was never proud man thought so absurdly well of him self， as the lover doth of the person loved； and therefore it was well said， That it is impossible to love， and to be wise. Neither doth this weakness appear to others only， and not to the party loved； but to the loved most of all， except the love be reciproque. For it is a true rule， that love is ever rewarded， either with the reciproque， or with an inward and secret contempt.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇9

　　people need homes: children assume their parents’ place as home; boarders call school ‘home’ on weekdays; married couples work together to build new homes; and travelers … have no place to call ‘home’, at least for a few nights.

　　so how about people who have to travel for extended periods of time? don’t they have the right to a home? of course they do.

　　some regular travelers take their own belongings: like bed sheets, pillowcases and family photos to make them feel like home no matter where they are; some stay for long periods in the same hotel and as a result become very familiar with service and attendants; others may simply put some flowers by the hotel window to make things more homely. furthermore, driving a camping car during one’s travels and sleeping in the vehicle at night is just like home – only mobile!

　　and how about maintaining relationships while in transit? some keep contact with their friends via internet; some send letters and postcards, or even photos; others may just call and say hi, just to let their friends know that they’re still alive and well. people find ways to keep in touch. making friends on the way helps travelers feel more or less at home. backpackers in youth hostels may become very good friends, even closer than siblings.

　　nowadays, fewer people are working in their local towns, so how do they develop a sense of belonging? whenever we step out of our local boundaries, there is always another ‘home’ waiting to be found. wherever we are, with just a little bit of effort and imagination, we can make the place we stay “home”.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇10

　　My l4-year-old son, John, and I spotted the coat simultaneously. It was hanging on a rack at a secondhand clothing store in Northampton Mass, crammed in with shoddy trench coats and an assortment of sad, woolen overcoats -- a rose among thorns.

　　While the other coats drooped, this one looked as if it were holding itself up. The thick, black wool of the double-breasted chesterfield was soft and unworn, as though it had been preserved in mothballs for years in dead old Uncle Henry's steamer trunk. The coat had a black velvet collar, beautiful tailoring, a Fifth Avenue label and an unbelievable price of $28. We looked at each other, saying nothing, but John's eyes gleamed. Dark, woolen topcoats were popular just then with teenage boys, but could cost several hundred dollars new. This coat was even better, bearing that touch of classic elegance from a bygone era.

　　John slid his arms down into the heavy satin lining of the sleeves and buttoned the coat. He turned from side to side, eyeing himself in the mirror with a serious, studied expression that soon changed into a smile. The fit was perfect.

　　John wore the coat to school the next day and came home wearing a big grin. "Ho. did the kids like your coat?" I asked. "They loved it," he said, carefully folding it over the back of a chair and smoothing it flat. I started calling him "Lord Chesterfield" and "The Great Gatsby."

　　Over the next few weeks, a change came over John. Agreement replaced contrariness, quiet, reasoned discussion replaced argument. He became more judicious, more mannerly, more thoughtful, eager to please. "Good dinner, Mom," he would say every evening.

　　He would generously loan his younger brother his tapes and lecture him on the niceties of behaviour; without a word of objection, he would carry in wood for the stove. One day when I suggested that he might start on homework before dinner, John -- a veteran procrastinator - said, "You're right. I guess I will."

　　When I mentioned this incident to one of his teachers and remarked that I didn't know what caused the changes, she said laughing. "It must be his coat!" Another teacher told him she was giving him a good mark not only because he had earned it but because she liked his coat. At the library, we ran into a friend who had not seen our children in a long time, "Could this be John?" he asked, looking up to John's new height, assessing the cut of his coat and extending his hand, one gentleman to another.

　　John and I both know we should never mistake a person's clothes for the real person within them. But there is something to be said for wearing a standard of excellence for the world to see, for practising standards of excellence in though, speech, and behaviour, and for matching what is on the inside to what is on the outside.

　　Sometimes, watching John leave for school, I've remembered with a keen sting what it felt like to be in the eighth grade -- a time when it was as easy to try on different approaches to life as it was to try on a coat. The whole world, the whole future is stretched out ahead, a vast panorama where all the doors are open. And if I were there right now, I would picture myself walking through those doors wearing my wonderful, magical coat.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇11

　　Writing is to hold back things that are going to leave anyway.So I used to write about flowers in spring,before the night they were going to wither,and I wrote about rain in autumn, though it never comes back from the darkness.

　　Anger.Happiness.Surprise.Sorrow.Disappointment.Passion.I’m always trying to keep them with me,and I always fail.It took me years to understand,that I could never keep some feelings which are only supposed to live for seconds forever with me,that I can take nothing back from time,that instant is longer than ever.

　　But I am still writing.For me, and for every moment.Before I write,I already know the answer,but I can never refuse to start because of the fear of the endings.

　　Sinpolo.Just the word, Sinpolo.A nonsense word that means nothing.

　　A word printed on the glass door of the shower room, probably the name of the brand of the glass or the design of the glass door.A “Chinglish” word created by one of the factories which wanted to follow the fashion trend of adding an English name for their brand.A fashionable brand name, even without the original Chinese name beside it.

　　It was not large or an obvious color,but it was right up there.As long as I lifted my head up,I could see it,and it was also the only point I could stare at.Sometimes the iron curtain outside the window was open,and I could clearly see how light went through the glass door and reflected on the water stains,and how “Sinpolo” took the sunshine,absorbed its color,and created its own image on the wall.Sometimes there's no light,so I just looked up into the dark city through the glass,and the word showed up,with a fluorescence in my mind.I enjoyed playing with the lights,using my hand to interrupt them from their original route,using my phone to rearrange them,or just putting my hands under them and observing how lines on my palm were like mountains with shadows.

　　During those years in that house,I did two things most frequently:argued with my father,and read meaningless novels.I argued with my father fiercely every week,for things I can't even remember now,and,as a result,I cried often.Most times,I didn't mean to,but maybe my tears had their own considerations.There was nothing worth my tears,I thought,so I rushed to the bathroom whenever this happened--no,not my own room,because I wanted neither my bed,my desk or my books to see me cry, nor did I want to remind myself of the arguments whenever I sat in front of my desk.

　　At this point,I should have been grateful for Sinpolo,of watching a boring and repeated teenager doing exactly the same thing for thousands of times.Sometimes we stared at each other;I saw the river outside the building I lived in through it,but I didn't know what it saw through me.On some occasions,at midnight,after finishing another novel full of bullshit,I went to the bathroom,still like a walking dead,with my soul sucked inside the book.Then I saw the words,or I should say then we saw each other,and I came back.

　　When I stared at it,I called its name in my mind.sin'pore,this is how I usually called it,but maybe it's wrong, maybe it should be sinpore, or sinpore, or just shengbaoluo,its Chinese pronunciation.I did feel sad for it,as its name actually meant something like saint,holy Polo,but the factory made it as Sin Polo.Did they ever know what they were doing?Or maybe they knew,and this was what exactly they wanted.I didn't think it’s very possible though.

　　But I called it my way anyway,when I wanted to calm myself down,especially when I wanted to stop myself from wasting H2O,I would silently read it for one thousand times in that moment,and amazingly,it would wipe out all strange thoughts,and I could have a blank brain to add some other things into.I knew I was thinking too much every day.Sometimes even when I was doing homework,the rain outside would flow through the window and onto my face.Then I lifted my head up,staring at one point in the void,and that voice of Sinpolo appeared,fixing my leak of emotions as usual.

　　This was not good,I would say.I was relying on it.If my mom could open up my head as the mother in Peter Pan does,she would find out that the word was occupying half of my brain.

　　After leaving the house,I used to ask my mom about it.“Do you remember the bathroom of our last house?” “Yes, ”my mother answered,with a curious look on her face,“then what?” “Do you still remember Sinpolo?” “No? What's that?” “It's the brand of the glass door in the bathroom.” “No, what's special about it?”“Well, nothing. ”

　　I felt tired in the middle of the conversation,and suddenly didn't want to share my feelings with her any more.I could tell my mother thought I acted strangely,but this was because that by then she didn't realize,and not did I by then,which kind of person was in front of her.This person was one of those least responsible ones among the crowd,those who were born to be too lazy to think,but still too eager to show off,those who had no intentions of targeting against anything so also had no intentions of knowing any,those who had extraordinary ability of senses like infants,and those who felt no sense of mission for it.

　　This person is not ready to take responsibility over her emotions now,and the word will take care of her and restrain her,until that day comes.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇12

　　Can you still find this day, my dear, among your possessions?

　　Among the souvenirs of your trips to faraway lands, the textbooks from those halcyon days when you walked the hallowed portals of that engineering college, the cassettes whose covers were left behind after one of those bacchanalian sessions in the hostel, the photographs of those classmates whose names you can't remember? Or is it hidden in the darkness, put out of sight along with the book you bought but never read, the gift you never quite found a use for and the letters you never finished or sent.

　　I can still find it here, in the city, in the house which you have never visited, in the kitchen where I have imaginary conversations with you. It is here even when I am not, for I go out now, leaving the light on and the music playing, so I can return home to the illusion of company.

　　I am probably better off now. Without secrets to keep from my parents. Without someone to come between me and my friends, me and my pastimes, me and my work, me and my sensible, understandable, utilitarian life. The life that I keep trying, keep failing to bring in line with the expectations that I keep trying, keep failing to make my own.

　　It is not that I always feel like this, sometimes I yearn for those days when tears and laughter both came easy. Those easy and quick transitions from ecstasy to despair. When a compliment could keep my mind occupied for hours on end and a harsh word could prick like a pin the same skin which now seems dry and insensitive. Like probably millions around the world, I look outside the window of a crowded bus, lost in my own thoughts and wonder how it could happen to me.

　　Was I not supposed to be different from the rest? Not for the silly schoolgirl infatuation with the football team captain or the fascination with the good for nothing, pot-smoking aspiring poet. Ours was a mature friendship that had blossomed into more. How could I feel a pang of envy then, when you lent a helping hand to another girl, when you spoke about someone who's far away and about to be married, when you were so involved in the book you were reading that you did not notice that we never met all day?

　　When we decided that it had been too long and that we should meet, I carefully started preparing a package for you. A small poem, that book you always wanted but never found, an old photograph and a bar of chocolate for us to share. What would I wear and what would we talk about? The package still remains in my drawer waiting for the phone to ring again.

　　It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when we sat in my tiny hostel room, discussing capitalism and campus gossip with equal fervor. When it seemed as if those conversations could last forever and we would never tire of them. When Joni Mitchell sang "California" seven times on continuous play before we thought of getting out.

　　Then one day suddenly we were looking for each other. You were always somewhere else, doing something else and strangely enough so was I. Those new people I met on that trip and that junior guy who loved the same movies I do. That girl next door who took math lessons from you. My room was almost always locked and yours was no different. We seemed to have discovered a whole world outside of ourselves all of a sudden. The tragedy was we had also lost the world we had before.

　　Then came the rescue mission. The loud fights in the hostel wing, the long silences and the desperate angry notes. Frustration, anxiety and even love revealing itself in the ugliest possible ways. Then indifference, complacency and resignation. Calm, dispassionate discussions on how we could stay friends. The decision that we should always let the other know when we would be around. That's when I started leaving those yellow post-its on the door. Those yellow post-its which by the time I came back would have your coordinates that I never used. If we had all of them now, they would be telling this tale a lot better than I am now.

　　Back home, I still continue leaving those post-its to this day, hoping that someone will write their whereabouts on them as well.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇13

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

　　Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a man of 60 more than a boy of 20. Nobody grows old merely by a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals.

　　Years may 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 in every human being’s heart the lure of wonders, the unfailing childlike appetite for what’s next and the joy of the game of living. In the center of your heart and my heart, 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 are young.

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

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇14

　　God puts dreams in our hearts. So, we must dream. We lose our sorrows and heartaches in dreams. And we live our fantasies in dreams. Some dreams are aborted while some come true.

　　Most mornings, I'd sit by the Lake in my neighborhood just to witness the awesomeness of God; to be marveled at what Mother Nature is about to unfold... to shower us with her magnificence. The squirrels too gather by the edge of the Lake. The birds float effortlessly, circling the Lake in a beautiful ballet. The gators stand in awe. Yes, the gators! The leaves on the trees would suddenly stop their slow dance. Just like me, they are patiently awaiting for the grand entrance of the sun. The moon must go. Yes, the moon must go... to make room for the sun to rise. The sound of the gentle breeze is soothing, almost musical. I am filled with joy. I cannot describe the feeling of this awesomeness. You'd have to experience it to understand the feeling and joy of it. I know I am about to witness an amazing grace. So... I am silent. My spirit is at peace. The stage has been set. Behind those clouds, the sun awaits... waiting for the heavenly command. The ritual is in full bloom. Then I see a slice of sunlight, wafting through the clouds. Suddenly, the entire horizon is brightened, and the sun finally takes the center stage. Right there, I am still... humbled... to listen to God speak into my soul. When He's done, then, I share with Him all that my heart desires.

　　Now, here's my personal dream story:

　　Eight years ago, a young couple very dear to my heart had a miscarriage after being attacked by armed robbers in their home. They were newly weds. They share the kind of love that makes one want to give love a second chance. Why? They truly love each other and, they take God on board with them in all that they do.

　　I am your typical all-year-round-positive-kinda-girl. But, it doesn't mean I do not have my down moments. I stay positive and thankful because I know there's a reason for every season. Since the couple had that miscarriage, they felt empty. For awhile, they wondered if God had abandoned them. They fasted and prayed. They cried. They isolated themselves from family and friends. Basically, they were existing, and not living. They travelled far and wide, spending all their resources, seeing different OBGYNs. Nothing worked.

　　One day, I called them to say hello. The wife sounded like someone had died. When I asked, she said, "I am fine. Nobody died. Just tired." When I spoke with her husband, he shared with me that she had just seen her period, menstrual period, that is. I asked him if I could speak with her again. I believe till this day that it was the grace of God that led me to make that phone call. It was time to share my one dream with her.

　　"For eight years, I always had same dream, You were in it. You were always nursing a child while rocking him/her in a rocking chair. In the dream, there was always a celebration happening...like a Christening, and you were in it, with your husband by your side." She was silent. I had to share some life lessons with her. I also had to remind her that she must never allow her faith to be shaken, instead, it should be renewed with each sunrise because God is Hope.

　　I read somewhere that when Life breaks us, "We are only broken to be made whole." Therefore, we must strive not to fall apart.

　　I shared this dream with my mother. And each time, we got excited together and submitted this dream of mine to God in prayers and in songs of praise, after all, God is just a prayer away. And God sure loves to be praised.

　　Many moons ago, I remember waking up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. I was woken up by a sharp pain in my stomach. I had a dream. This time, I was the one pregnant. I went down on my knees in total submission to the Will of God...asking Him for my one dream to come true. And no, I did not wish to be pregnant (Laughs).

　　I do know one thing for sure: Dreams really do come true when you believe in your dreams, when you give God something to work with (doing your part), and when you believe in and trust God.

　　God finally granted me the dream of my heart. This winter, this man and wife are expecting their first child.

　　When I received this great news, I was not surprised. The awesomeness of God is immeasurable. I am always in total submission to His Will. I believed this dream was going to come true at God's own time. And, this is God's time. For this, I am most thankful and humbled by this amazing grace.

　　英语散文名篇朗诵 篇15

　　Wait for you, don't know when I'm going to wait for you, how long will you be, one thousand years or ten thousand years? Wait for you, no matter how long, I've been waiting for you. Wait for you in the Jiangnan region of rivers and lakes, waiting for you in Saibei prairie, waiting for you in the Haoyuedangkong night, waiting for you at the dawn of dawn. Waiting for you alone, waiting for you, waiting for you when the flowers bloom, and waiting for you when the flowers bloom. How many day and night, how many seasons, how many times and how many times have I been waiting for you.

　　In the Tang Dynasty wine medium you, wait for you in the song's branches and leaves, in the Slender West Lake at the end of you, wait for you, wait for you charming smile, you love dream, you clear tears. Dear, I'm waiting for you. In order to get that love, for that love, for that romantic story, for that sweet home, I'd like to wait for you. Today, I wait for you in the autumn dusk, fall the tears of abundance, such as wet evening light eyes, etc. Yin broken the residual c..

　　Dear, can you know I'm waiting for you? You have my trace the withered grass, water eastward in my hope. I don't know where your return will be. Wait for your familiar silhouette, wait for your gentle words, wait for your sweet breath. Dear, I am willing to wait for you in the spring catkins fly, I am willing to wait for you in the snow in the winter, you are a curtain, waiting for you is a heartache, is, perhaps, this life I will not get to you, not to walk the red carpet, a marriage but, however, hall, I am willing, willing to wait for you.

　　Dear, no matter is still waiting for you forever, The end of life in every, day and night, waiting for you in every seasons.