四季隨筆-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)

第8部分 (第1/7頁)

an　put　to　himself。　You　read　for　your　own　pleasure；　for　your　solace　and　strengthening。　Pleasure；　then；　purely　selfish？　Solace　which　endures　for　an　hour；　and　strengthening　for　no　bat？　Ay；　but　I　know；　I　know。　With　what　heart　should　I　live　here　in　my　cottage；　waiting　for　life's　end；　were　it　not　for　those　hours　of　seeming　idle　reading？

I　think　sometimes；　how　good　it　were　had　I　some　one　by　me　to　listen　when　I　am　tempted　to　read　a　passage　aloud。　Yes；　but　is　there　any　mortal　in　the　whole　world　upon　whom　I　could　invariably　depend　for　sympathetic　understanding？……nay；　who　would　even　generally　be　at　one　with　me　in　my　appreciation。　Such　harmony　of　intelligences　is　the　rarest　thing。　All　through　life　we　long　for　it：　the　desire　drives　us；　like　a　demon；　into　waste　places；　too　often　ends　by　plunging　us　into　mud　and　morass。　And；　after　all；　we　learn　that　the　vision　was　illusory。　To　every　man　is　it　decreed：　thou　shalt　live　alone。　Happy　they　who　imagine　that　they　have　escaped　the　mon　lot；　happy；　whilst　they　imagine　it。　Those　to　whom　no　such　happiness　has　ever　been　granted　at　least　avoid　the　bitterest　of　disillusions。　And　is　it　not　always　good　to　face　a　truth；　however　disfortable？　The　mind　which　renounces；　once　and　for　ever；　a　futile　hope；　has　its　pensation　in　ever…growing　calm。

XXI

All　about　my　garden　to…day　the　birds　are　loud。　To　say　that　the　air　is　filled　with　their　song　gives　no　idea　of　the　ceaseless　piping；　whistling；　trilling；　which　at　moments　rings　to　heaven　in　a　triumphant　unison；　a　wild　accord。　Now　and　then　I　notice　one　of　the　smaller　songsters　who　seems　to　strain　his　throat　in　a　madly　joyous　endeavour　to　out…carol　all　the　rest。　It　is　a　chorus　of　praise　such　as　none　other　of　earth's　children　have　the　voice　or　the　heart　to　utter。　As　I　listen；　I　am　carried　away