關(guān)于奉獻(xiàn)精神的英語(yǔ)美文
關(guān)于奉獻(xiàn)精神的英語(yǔ)美文
把別人的幸福當(dāng)做自己的幸福，把鮮花奉獻(xiàn)給他人，把棘刺留給自己!學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于奉獻(xiàn)精神的英語(yǔ)美文，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于奉獻(xiàn)精神的英語(yǔ)美文篇一
無(wú)私奉獻(xiàn)
One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.
Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, "Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine." The crowd and the young man looked at the old man's heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn't fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.
The people stared — how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man's heart and saw its state and laughed. "You must be joking," he said. "Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears."
"Yes," said the old man, "Yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love — I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren't exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared. Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn't returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges — giving love is taking a chance. Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space in my heart. So now do you see what true beauty is? "
The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands.
The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man's heart. It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man's heart flowed into his. They embraced and walked away side by side.
一個(gè)年輕人站在城鎮(zhèn)的中央，宣布他的心是整個(gè)山谷中最美麗的心。圍觀的群眾很多，他們都稱(chēng)贊他的心的確是最完美的，沒(méi)有一點(diǎn)傷痕或者瑕疵。真的，他們一致認(rèn)為這實(shí)在是他們見(jiàn)過(guò)的最美麗的心。這個(gè)年輕人非常自豪，更加起勁地大聲吹捧自己那顆美麗的心。
突然，一位老人出現(xiàn)在人群面前，他說(shuō)：“你的心不如我的美麗。”圍觀群眾和年輕人都朝老人的心看去，它有力地跳動(dòng)著，卻布滿(mǎn)了傷疤，有的地方被挖走了，雖然重新補(bǔ)上了，但修補(bǔ)得不甚完整，留下參差不齊的疤痕。實(shí)際上，有的地方還露出很深的豁口。
人們睜大了眼睛——他們想：他怎能說(shuō)自己的心更美麗呢?年輕人看了看老人的心，見(jiàn)是這種情形，不禁笑了起來(lái)：“你不是在開(kāi)玩笑吧?”他說(shuō)。“把你的心和我的比一下，我的心是那么完美，而你的心卻布滿(mǎn)了傷疤和裂痕。”
“是的，”老人說(shuō)，“你的心從表面來(lái)看很完美，但我絕不會(huì)跟你交換。你看，每個(gè)傷疤都代表我為別人獻(xiàn)出的一份愛(ài)——我掏出一塊心給他們，他們常常會(huì)掏出自己的一塊回贈(zèng)給我，但由于這兩塊不完全一樣，傷口的邊緣就留下了疤痕，不過(guò)我十分珍惜這些疤痕，因?yàn)樗鼈兡苁刮蚁肫鹞覀児餐瑩碛械膼?ài)心。有時(shí)我送出了心，其他人并沒(méi)有回贈(zèng)給我，因此就出現(xiàn)了這些深孔——獻(xiàn)出愛(ài)只是創(chuàng)造機(jī)會(huì)。盡管這些傷口疼痛，并且整日敞開(kāi)著，卻能使我想起我給予他們的愛(ài)。我希望有一天，他們能夠回來(lái)填補(bǔ)上我心里的空間。你們現(xiàn)在明白什么是真正的美麗了吧?”
年輕人默默無(wú)語(yǔ)地站著，淚水順著臉頰流下。他走到這位老人身邊，把手伸進(jìn)自己完美而年輕美麗的心里，撕下一塊來(lái)。他用顫抖的雙手把它獻(xiàn)給這位老人。
老人接過(guò)饋贈(zèng)，把它放進(jìn)自己的心里。然后他從自己疤痕累累的心里掏出一塊，放在年輕人心里的那個(gè)傷口上。正好放進(jìn)去，但不是特別吻合，因?yàn)橛幸恍┌毯邸Ｄ贻p人看著自己的心，看起來(lái)不再完美但比以前更美麗了，因?yàn)槔先诵闹械膼?ài)也流淌到了他的心里。他們互相擁抱，然后肩并肩離開(kāi)了。
關(guān)于奉獻(xiàn)精神的英語(yǔ)美文篇二
We are living in one of those periods in human history which are marked by recolutionary changes in all of man's ideas and values. It is a time when every one of us must look within himself to find what ideas, what beliefs, and what ideals each of us will live by. And unless we find these ideals,and unless we stand by them firmly, we have no power to overcome the crisis in which we in our world find ourselves.
I believe in people, in sheer, unadulterated humanity, I believe in listening to what people have to say, in helping them to achieve the things which they want and the things which they need. Naturally,there are people who behave like beasts, who kill,who cheat, who lie and who destroy. But without a belief in man and a faith in his possibilities for the future, there can be no hope for the future, but only bitterness that the past has gone.
I believe we must, each of us, make a philosophy by which we can live. There are people who make a philosophy out of believing in nothing. They say there is no truth,that goodness is simply cleverness in disguising your own selfishness. They say that life is simply the short gap in between an unpleasant birth and an inevitable death. There are others who say that man is born into evil and sinfulness and that life is a process of purification through suffering and that death is the reward for having suffered.There are others who say that man is a kind of machine which operates according to certain laws, and that if you can learn the laws and seize the power to manipulate the machine, you can make man behave automatically to serve whatever ends you have in mind.
I believe these philosophies are false. The most important thing in life is the way it is lived,and there is no such thing as an abstract happiness,an abstract goodness or morality, or an abstract anything,except in terms of the person who believes and who acts. There is only the single human being who lives and who, through every moment of his own personal living experience, is being happy or unhappy,noble or base, wise or unwise, or simply existing.
The question is: How can these individual moments of human experience be filled with the richness of a philosophy which can sustain the individual in his own life?Unless we give part of ourselves away,unless we can live with other people and understand them and help them,we are missing the most essential part of our own human lives. The fact that the native endowment of the young mind is one of liberalismand confidence in the powers of man for good is the basis of my philosophy.And if only man can be given a free chance to use his powers, this philosophy will result in a boundless flow of vital energy and a willingness to try new things,combined with a faith in the future.
There are as many roads to the attainment of wisdom and goodness as there are people who undertaketo walk them.There are as many solid truths on which we can stand as there are people who can search them out and who will stand on them. There are as many ideas and ideals as there are men of good will who will hold them in their minds and act them in their lives.
關(guān)于奉獻(xiàn)精神的英語(yǔ)美文篇三
愛(ài)的奉獻(xiàn)
When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard.
Joe came out of the Middle West with a genius for pictorial art2. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with an important citizen passing it hurriedly. This work was framed3 and hung in the drug store window. At twenty he left for New York.
Delia did things in music so well in a pine-tree village in the South that her relatives raised a little money for her to go “North” and “finish.” They could not see her, but that is our story.
Joe and Delia met in a studio where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss all kinds of arts.
Joe and Delia fell in love with each other, and in a short time were married—for, when one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard.
The couple began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonely flat. And they were happy; for they had their Art and they had each other.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister—you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light—his high-lights have brought him fame. Delia was studying under Rosenstock—a very strict piano teacher.
They were very happy as long as their money lasted. So is everybody. Their aims were very clear. They hoped their arts could bring them wealth and fame.
But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat—the warm chats after the day’s study; the comfortable dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions4; the mutual help and inspiration; and meat and cheese sandwiches at 11 p. m.
But after a while Art flagged5. It sometimes does, even if nobody flags it. Everything going out and nothing coming in. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to make a living.
For two or three days she went out hunting for pupils. One evening she came home happily.
“Joe, dear,” she said, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General—General Pinkney’s daughter—on Seventy-first Street. Such a splendid house, Joe—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine6. I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.
“My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She’s a delicate thing—dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I’m to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! a lesson. I don’t mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can once again take up my lessons with Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows7, dear, and let’s have a nice supper.”
“That’s all right for you, Dele,” said Joe, opening a can of peas with a carving knife, “but how about me? Do you think I’m going to let you hurry for wages while I enjoy the taste of high art? No! I guess I can do something, and bring in a dollar or two.”
Delia came and hung about his neck.
“Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had left my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on a week. You mustn’t think of leaving Mr. Magister.”
“All right,” said Joe, reaching for the vegetable dish. “But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn’t Art. But you’re great and a dear to do it.”
“When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard,” said Delia.
“Magister praised the sky in that sketch8 I made in the park,” said Joe. “And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kind of a rich fellow sees them.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Delia sweetly. “And now let’s be thankful for General Pinkney and this roast.”
During all of the next week the couple had an early breakfast. Joe was excited about some sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia prepared breakfast for him, praised, and kissed at seven o’clock. It was most times seven o’clock when he returned in the evening.
At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but tired, threw three five-dollar bills on the 8 by 10 (inches) centre table of the 8 by 10 (feet) flat room9.
“Sometimes,” she said, “Clementina tires me. I’m afraid she doesn’t practise enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely in white, and that does get monotonous10. But General Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano and stands there pulling his white beard. ‘And how are the semiquavers and the demi-semiquavers progressing11?’ he always asks.
“I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe!”
And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo12, drew out a ten, a five, a two and a one—all legal notes13—and laid them beside Delia’s earnings.
“Sold that water-colour to a man from Peoria,” he announced happily.
“Don’t joke with me,” said Delia—“not from Peoria!”
“All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woolen coat. He saw the sketch in Tinkle’s window and thought it was a windmill14 and bought it anyhow. He ordered another—an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot15—to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it.”
“I’m so glad you’ve kept on,” said Delia heartily. “You’re sure to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We’ll have a rich dinner to-night.”
On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his on the table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands.
Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages16.
“How is this?” asked Joe after the usual greetings.
Delia laughed, but not very joyously.
“Clementina,” she explained, “insisted upon a Welsh rabbit17 after her lesson. She is such a strange girl. Welsh rabbits at five in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing dish18, Joe, just as if there wasn’t a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn’t in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled19 a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and wrist. It hurt terribly, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But General Pinkney!—Joe, that old man nearly went crazy. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up with. It doesn’t hurt so much now.”
“What’s this?” asked Joe, taking the hand softly and pulling at some white strands20 under the bandages.
“It’s something soft,” said Delia, “that had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?” She had seen the money on the table.
“Did I?” said Joe. “Just ask the man from Peoria. He got his sketch today, and he isn’t sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson21. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dele?”
“Five o’clock, I think,” said Dele . “The iron—I mean the rabbit came off the fire about that time. You ought to have seen General Pinkney, Joe, when—”
“Sit down here a moment, Dele,” said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat down beside her and put his arm across her shoulders.
“What have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?” he asked.
She sat in silence for a moment or two with an eye full of love, and murmured a phrase or two of General Pinkney; but at last down went her head and out came the truth and tears.
“I couldn’t get any pupils,” she said. “And I couldn’t bear to have you give up your lessons; and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twenty-fourth Street laundry22. And I think I did very well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina, don’t you, Joe? And when a girl in the laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit. You’re not angry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn’t got the work you mightn’t have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria.”
“He wasn’t from Peoria,” said Joe slowly.
“Well, it doesn’t matter where he was from. How clever you are, Joe—and—kiss me, Joe—and what made you ever think that I wasn’t giving music lessons to Clementina?”
“I didn’t,” said Joe, “until to-night. And I wouldn’t have then, only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with an iron. I’ve been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks.”
“And then you didn’t—”
“My purchaser23 from Peoria,” said Joe, “and General Pinkney are both creations24 of the same art—but you wouldn’t call it either painting or music.”
And then they both laughed, and Joe began:
“When one loves one’s Art no service seems—”
But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. “No,” she said—“just ‘When one loves.’”
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