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“Autumn! Forth6 from glowing orchards7 stepped he gaily8, in a gown Of warm russet, freaked with gold, and with a visage sunny brown; And he laughed for very joy, and he danced from too much pleasure, And he sang old songs of harvest, and he quaffed9 a mighty10 measure.
But above this wild delight an overmastering graveness rose, And the fields and trees seemed thoughtful in their absolute repose11; And I saw the woods consuming in a many-coloured death— Streaks12 of yellow flame, down-deepening through the green that lingereth;
Sanguine14 flushes, like a sunset, and austerely-shadowing brown. And I heard within the silence the nuts sharply rattling15 down; And I saw the long dark hedges all alight with scarlet16 fire, Where the berries, pulpy-ripe, had spread their bird-feasts on the briar.”
We have here, save for some little flaws, a perfect painting of the intensely still, calm, expecting attitude of nature, the absolute repose of the year, which rests by its work done, and asks, in a quiet peace, in a deep trust, of the All-wise and the All-loving, “What next?”
“Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only through the faded leaf, The chestnut17 pattering to the ground.”
Autumn days! I think they would be very sad indeed if we could only see decay in them, and if God had not put a little safe bud and germ of hope into every bulb and upon every branch—a promise of future life amid universal death: just as He put that green promise-bud into the heart of Adam and Eve, when such a dreadful death had gathered about the present and the future for them—declaring, to their seemingly victorious18 foe19, of the woman’s seed, that
“It shall bruise20 thy head.”
A tiny dear little germ of a bud, and oh, how many hundred Summers and Winters passed before it developed into the166 glorious perfect flower! And so now there is yet a sadness, but only a cheery, gentle, tender sadness, about Autumn days to the heart that is waiting for God. And it seems to me wonderful that He should have given us one of His own minstrels to sit on the twigs21 as they grow bare and lonely-looking, and to express to us just the feeling that Autumn calls up within the heart, and that we yearn23 to have set to music for us. The little Robin24 waits his time; he does not cease, indeed, to trill his note in Spring, although we do not notice him then amid our blackbirds and thrushes and blackcaps and nightingales; for he is very humble-hearted, and content to be set aside when we can do without him. But Autumn days come, and the nightingale has fled, and the blackcap is far away, and the lark25 and the thrush and the blackbird are silent;—then the robin draws near. Close to our houses he comes, with his cheery warm breast, and kind bright eye, and his message from God. And then he interprets the Autumn to us, in those broken, tenderly-glad thrills of song, that, simple though they be, can sometimes disturb the heart with beauty that it cannot fathom26, but that agitates27 and shakes it even to the sudden brimming of the eyes with tears. “Yes, it is sad,” he says, “to see the flowers dying, and the leaves falling, and the harvest over. It is sad—not a little sad—still, cheer up, cheer up; have a good heart. God has told me, and my little warm heart knows, that it is not all sad. I know it is not. I can’t tell why. But it can’t be all sad; for God sent me to sing in the Autumn days. He taught me my song, and I know that there is a great deal in it about peace and joy. And it must be right; for though my nest is choked up, and my little167 ones are flown, and my mate has left me, I can’t help singing it. Cheer up. It is sad, but not all sad. Peace and joy—joy and peace.”
“The morning mist is cleared away, Yet still the face of heaven is grey, Nor yet th’ autumnal breeze has stirred the grove28, Faded, yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil29 scene, The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove30.
“Sweet messenger of ‘calm decay,’ Saluting31 sorrow as you may, As one still bent32 to find or make the best, In thee and in this quiet mead4, The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resigned than blest.
“Oh cheerful, tender strain! the heart That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary33 blast, Though gone and spent its joyous34 prime, And on the world’s Autumnal time, ’Mid withered35 hues36 and sere37, its lot be cast,
“That is the heart for watchman true, Waiting to see what God will do.”
* * * * *
Let us walk out into the garden. I love an Autumn garden, and I think that at any season of the year a garden is a book in which we may read a great deal about God. On the Sunday evenings, therefore, I like to sit there, under a tree may be, with some peaceful heavenly book, sometimes to read, and sometimes to close over my thumb, and keep just as company while I meditate38; and God’s works seem an apt comment on God’s Word, which I have heard or read that day.
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But now we will go in the early morning before breakfast—
“To bathe our brain from drowsy39 night In the sharp air and golden light. The dew, like frost, is on the pane40, The year begins, though fair, to wane41: There is a fragrance42 in its breath, Which is not of the flowers, but death.”
And we pass out of the window that opens into the garden under the tulip-tree standing43 so tall and still, with pale green and now yellow-touched leaves, that harmonise well with the pale sky against which you see them. The beech44 in the shrubbery has begun to “gather brown”; the tall dark elms that shut it in remind you vividly45 of the poet’s description of
“Autumn laying here and there A fiery46 finger on the leaves.”
Against the thick box-trees underneath47 you love to see
“The sunflower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disc of seed,”
and some tall hollyhocks, still keeping up a brave cheer of rose-coloured and primrose48 and black blossoms upon their highest spike49. The grass is glistening50 with heavy dew, sapphire51, rose-diamond, pure brilliant, and yellow-diamond;—move a little, and one drop changes from one to the other of these. Walking across the lawn towards that rose-bed, you leave distinct green foot-prints upon the hoary52 grass. Perhaps the feeling that at last almost weighs upon you, and depresses you, is the intense, waiting stillness of everything. That apple-tree, bending down to the lawn with rosy53 apples, it seems so perfectly54 still and169 resting, that it quite makes you start to hear one of its red apples drop upon the path. The hurry and bustle55 and eager growth of the year has all gone by: these roses, that used to send out crowding bud after bud;—for some weeks a pause, a waiting, has come over them. This one purely56 white blossom, you watched it developing, unfolding so slowly, that it never seemed to change, taking a week for what would have taken no more than half a summer day, until at last it had opened fully58, and hung down its head towards the brown damp mould. And there it seemed to stop. It seems not to have changed now for a week or two—why should it hurry to fade?—there were no more to come after it should go. Now half of it has detached itself, and lies in a little unbroken snowy heap on the ground. How quietly it must have fallen there! And the other half still stays on the tree, and leans down, and watches with a strange calm over the fallen white heaped petals59,
“Innumerably frost impearled.”
Something of depression comes over you, I say, and there happens to be no cheery robin just now to put in a word, nor sedate60 rook sailing with still wings overhead across the pale sky, to give you even the poorer encouragement of his mere61 stoic62 caw. Why are you depressed63? What is this strange sadness that seems to you to lurk64 under the exquisite65 calm and beautiful stillness of the Autumn morning?
Do you hardly know? I will tell you. That quiet is the quiet of Death coming on; that calm waiting and expectancy66 is the herald67 of its approach, the beauty is the hectic68 flush of the consumptive cheek. Death is sad for Life to contemplate;170 and we are so much akin57 to all this decay, that this quiet tells us of it almost more than the heavy bell that now and then stirs the air of the Summer morning. The coming death of the Summer leaves and the Summer flowers preaches to us a solemn sermon of our own death drawing near. Watch that leaf circling down from that silent tree, and listen to the echo in your own heart:
“We all do fade as a leaf.”
Yes, death, the sense of advancing death, is at the root of your sadness and depression. Death in its beauty, in a tender loveliness—death, the angel, not the skeleton, yet still DEATH. And,
“Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
“’Tis LIFE, whereof our nerves are scant69, Oh life, not death, for which we pant, More life, and fuller, that I want.”
And a great warrior70, of long ago, one who had less cause than most to fear death, yet said:
“We that are in this tabernacle do groan71, being burdened; not for that we would be unclothed, but clothed upon, that mortality might be swallowed up of life.”
Well, this sadness must remain in some measure; the flowers must die, and the leaves must fall, and the robin’s attempts to cheer us bring the tears very near our eyes. “Sin entered into the world, and death by sin”: and the child of such a parent cannot bring joy as his attendant. Still, let us go on with our171 garden walk, and see whether, even in the face of nature, there be nothing else but only this peaceful waiting sadness.
Take these branches of the Lilac bushes, that we remember bending under their scented73 masses in the warm early Summer days. Bare and damp, bare of flowers, and only clad with sickly yellow leaves; but what else can we see in them? There is not one (examine them well) which has not already a full green bud of promise, developed even before the leaves, the old leaves, have fallen away. Look on the ground in the shrubberies. What are these little green points that begin just to break the mould? Ah, they are indeed the myriad74 white constellations75 of snowdrops already beginning to dawn, and the frail76 flower will sleep warm and safe in the bulb, under the patchwork77 counterpane of gold beech leaves, and bronze-purple pear-leaves, and silver-white poplar, and come out among the first to tell you that nature is not dead, but sleepeth. Look farther, on to the flower borders, at the base of the tall gaunt stalks of the once stately Queen of flowers. Lo, there already
“Green above the ground appear The lilies of another year.”
Not all sad, then; no, not all sad! Memory droops78 indeed with dewy eyes, but the baby, Hope, is laughing on her lap. There is a resurrection for the flowers and the trees; true, this of itself could not assure us that there is one for man. But God has told us in the Book of His Word, the meaning of what we read in the Book of His Works. And we know now what the robin meant, in his small song without words,172 and we know what the promise of Spring means, hidden in each Autumn twig22; and indeed, the garden and the field, and every hedgerow, and every grass, gather now into a great chorus that take up an Apostle’s words,
“This corruptible79 must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality80. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
But it is now nearly half-past eight o’clock, and the family will be assembling for prayer. Let us pass round this walk, with hearts cheerful, or only tinged82 with a shade rather of quiet than of gloom—
“And then return, by walls of peach, And pear-trees bending to our reach, And rose-beds with the roses gone, To bright-laid breakfast.”
Autumn days. Such thoughts as these may interpret to us the strange oppressive sadness that comes over us, as we watch them stealing on; also, why it is that this is such a tender, sweet sadness, and not a dark, deadly gloom—the shade of a solemn grove, not the blackness of a vault83. Death is indeed a valley of shadow still. But the rays of the Sun of Righteousness have penetrated84 even there—and the hideous85 darkness is softened86 to a tender twilight87 hush88. Oh,
“Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
And now the Autumn days are very calm and restful to think upon, and there is a deep peace in the Autumn of life,173 for which we are well content to exchange the flush and glee of Spring, and the glory and glow of Summer. Our snowdrops and our primroses89 are all over, our lilac and laburnum, roses and lilies, all died long ago; even the fruit is plucked, except for the gleam of a stray red apple that burns upon the nearly leafless bough90; and the corn is all carried, and we are wandering over life’s once waving fields, collecting just the last gleanings for our Master. Our larks92 are silent in the fallows, our thrushes and blackbirds voiceless in the groves93; the rich flood of the nightingale’s thrilling song has long been lost to our hearts. The withered leaves sail down about us, the mists sleep on the hills, the dew lies thick in the valleys. But we are very happy and peaceful; even here there is a stray flower or two, and the Autumn crocus droops on the garden beds; and the berries are bright in the hedges, under the feathery tufts of the “traveller’s joy.” And our heart is well satisfied with the robin’s song of trust and content, that has taken the place of—if richer and fuller—yet less spiritual and more distracting strains. There is an intense waiting calm; but, oh, such thoughts of Life!—life everlasting94, life indeed—push their way through the yet unfallen leaves of this frail existence, and that small cheery melody is, we well know, the prelude95 to the full symphonies that shall burst from Angel choirs96.
How beautiful a time, thus thought of, is life’s Autumn time! I love to read of such a calm season in the life of a good man—a calm only broken by flashes of exultation97, that come, like the aurora98 borealis, into the twilight sky. There is a sadness, no doubt—there must be—in the coming shade of death which deepens on the path. But the bud of life in the very heart of174 death; of this we are more and more conscious, the closer we draw near to the withered branches. And, like the fabled99 scent72 of the Spice Islands, even over the darkening seas are wafted100 to us sweet odours from the Promised Land.
* * * * *
Autumn days—when the flowers are over, and the harvest well-nigh gathered in, and the flush and the eagerness very far behind, and the strength and the vigour101 things also of the past:—I think they are sweet days to which to look forward amid life’s hurry and bustle, its excitement of laughter and tears. A very peaceful land, a land of Beulah, where repose seems to reign102, and all seems “only waiting.” No more wild dreams, it is true, of what life is going to be, but then no sad wakings, and, lo, it was a dream! No more quick blood coursing in the veins103, no more excess of animal life making stillness impossible and silence torture; no more young devotion and quick enthusiasm, warming the heart even to tinder, ready to flare104 at the first spark of friendship or love. No more glow of poetry cast about every face, and every daisy, and every sky, and every scene of every act of the coming years. No more expectation of becoming a great poet, a mighty warrior, an evangeliser of the world. And then no vigour to act, as when life went on; no leading the front of the battle, striking strong strokes for the right; no rejoicing in the strength that has now come, and that is still, still in its prime.
All that, and more, has passed away from life’s Autumn days. It was, perhaps, rather sad to feel these things departing; to notice growth first come to a standstill—and then, here and175 there the streak13 of Autumn, and the first yellow leaves stealing down. To find the years so short, instead of so long; to lose the wonder and the thrill at the first snowdrop, the first cowslip; the first nest low in the bushes with five blue eggs;176 the first excursion round the park wall for violets, or into the wood for nuts. To lose the glow of early love, the despair of early disappointment, the vigour of early intention and action; and to mellow down into a half-light, undisturbed by any of those violent lights and shadows. It was, I say, perhaps rather sad to feel these things departing.
But now they have gone, and the Autumn days have come, and the heart has settled down to this state of things, and is content that it should be so. It is better, far better, the old man sees, to be in the Autumn of life, though he yet thinks tenderly, lovingly, of those young days in the impetuous, over-blossomed Spring. The “visionary gleam” has left his sky. But a truer, if a quieter lustre105 has arisen in it and abides106. “There hath passed a glory from the earth.” But the glory has been transferred to Heaven. It was sad, at first, when the glamour107, and the magic, and the glow, passed away from this world, which, to youth’s heart seemed so exceedingly, inexpressibly glorious and fair. But it is better so. A mirage108 gave, indeed, a certain sweet mysterious light to life’s horizon, and he could not but feel dashed at first to find little but bare sand where the unreal brightness had been. But he journeyed on, learning, somewhat sadly, in manhood, God’s loving lesson, that we are strangers and pilgrims upon earth, that we have no continuing city here, not love, nor fame, nor wealth, nor power; none of these could, even had we attained109 it, prove a City of Rest: we must still journey on before we can sit down satisfied. And God’s true servant, in his Autumn days, has learned not to miss nor to mourn over youth’s mirage. Nay110, his future has “no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to177 shine in it. For the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.”
He looks at the sky, which is certainly darkening, because life’s one-day sun is going down. But, the lower it sinks, the less he laments111 it, for he finds that it did indeed hide from him the vast tracts112 of Infinity113, and close him in, by its light, in a small low-ceiled room. Oh quiet days of peace and reverence114 and mild serenity115; the rocking waves of the passions asleep about the tossed heart, and the glittering thoughts of heaven reflected instead from the calm soul; and its speechless infinite depths gradually mirroring themselves in the being! Happy days, when life’s feverish116, exciting novel is closed, and we are just reading quietly for an hour in the Book of peace, before the time comes for us to go off to bed! Happy days; when God Himself is striking off one by one the fetters117 and manacles of earth, and will soon send His Angel to open for us the last iron gate of earth’s prison!
How thankful we should be, as we grow into the Autumn, for those kind words which assure us that life’s beginning, not life’s end, is then really near; that it is but the bud of immortal81 youth that is pushing off those withered leaves of mortality; for those who have given the year of their life to God; or, at least (such is His mercy in Christ Jesus), the earnest gleaning91 of its late months. For else, how sad to watch the sun setting, the only sun we know of, and to hope for no long day beyond. Think of what a wise heathen said of old age. Cicero wrote a treatise118, a wonderfully beautiful treatise, in praise of it. But all this was but playing with his own sadness, in his old age; pleading the cause of a client, in whose cause178 he did not believe. For, after all, he writes his real thought to his friend Atticus. “Old age,” he says, “has embittered119 me—my life is spent.” Sad, yet true from his point of view. Sad—all spent; and no good hope of a “treasure in the heavens that faileth not.” How even one of the little ones in our village schools could have cheered up sad Cicero!
Now see what Christianity can do, and has done. Think of waiting Simeon:
“Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, According to Thy word: For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation120.”
Hear aged121 Paul, the great champion Apostle, leaning now on his sword, and exhorting122 the younger warriors123 who are leading on that war, that he soon must leave. What peace, nay, what exultation, flashes through his waiting!
And a picture arises before us of another aged, very aged man, ending the Bible and his life with the solemn rapturous words of glowing expectation—
“He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!”
There is another aspect of Autumn days, dreary and sad as they apply to the worldling. But to the obedient faithful child of God, their sadness, we have seen, is gentle, peaceful sadness, a tender hush more than counterbalanced by the promise of we know not yet, what exceeding ecstasy124 and glow of life, while we speak of it as the life everlasting. Aye,
“The grass withereth, the flower fadeth,”
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and there must be a hush over Autumn days, because death must be sad, even when it is beautiful. But how sweet and glorious, amid the fall and decay of the loveliness and beauty around us, to be able to rest our heart quietly upon a land beyond earth’s horizon; and to look forward brightly and happily across these changes, “to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not away.”
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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agitates
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| 搅动( agitate的第三人称单数 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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44
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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45
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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46
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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47
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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48
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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49
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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50
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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51
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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52
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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53
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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54
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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55
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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56
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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57
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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58
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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59
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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60
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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61
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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62
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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63
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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64
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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65
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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66
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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67
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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68
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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69
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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70
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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71
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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72
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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73
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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74
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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75
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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76
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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77
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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78
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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79
corruptible
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| 易腐败的，可以贿赂的 | |
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80
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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81
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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82
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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84
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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85
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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86
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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87
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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88
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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89
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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90
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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91
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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92
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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93
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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94
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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95
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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96
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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97
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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98
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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99
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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100
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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102
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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103
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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104
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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105
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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106
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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107
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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108
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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109
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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110
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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111
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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113
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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114
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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115
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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116
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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117
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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119
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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121
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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122
exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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123
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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124
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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