“Where is the pride of Summer, the green prime,— The many, many leaves all twinkling? Three On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime, Trembling,—and one upon the old oak tree!”
Nature is always beautiful to those who always look for beauty in her. But perhaps she is least lovely when clad in a close thick fog. And it is thus that we have seen her continually of late. The wet black trees stood dim and ghostlike in the mist, and much like seaweed under tissue-paper. The hedges looked unreal and distant, as you passed between them on the pale road. Passengers and carriages loomed10 blurred11 and big and indistinct, out of the chill cloud in front of you, long after the wheels and the steps had been heard. Dull unglittering dew strung the branches that stretched over you, and gave a blunt light here and there in the hedge. You were isolated12 from your kind; scarce could you see one approaching until he was close upon you; and then, a few steps, and he was straightway swallowed up. It was not a fading morning mist; but a good November fog, one developing from cold blue to grey, and thence to yellow, and so on to tawny13 dun. Homeward-bound, you emerge from it into the railway-station. The train is late; the fire is pleasant; and you muse14 or doze15 away half-an-hour by the waiting-room fire. Presently a red spot dyes part of the mist; a behemoth mass is perceivable beside the platform; you get into a carriage, the whistle shrills16, the train moves, and the station lights are gone in a minute,—and you also are swallowed up in the fog.
269 And as you pass, up the garden, home,—the chance is that you hurry on, where you would have paused to admire beauty. In the cold fog, the asparagus, hung with leaden mist-drops that chilly17 gleam here and there, bends and falls about its mounded bed; a black, wet, sere18 leaf or two clings to the ragged19 black sticks against that wall; the acacias drop pattering drops upon the broad fallen sycamore leaves: you might as well walk through water, as cross that lawn for a short cut to the warm mellow20 room, at whose window, which opens to the ground, stands she who chiefly makes that house, home. You are not sorry to shut the windows, and to have the curtains drawn21, and to let the earth stand without, like a shrouded22 ghost, clad in winding-sheet of fog, while you enjoy the genial23 blaze, the cosy24 meal, the little ones on your lap after dinner, the gentle wifely smile that loves to see these loved.
Well, I contend that there is beauty even in the fog; but I will not stop to prove this now. I will only say that there is less beauty in this than in most other aspects of nature, and much excuse for the connecting the foggy bare time of year with chill and dreary25 thoughts. Then, growth of flower and fruit seems suspended, save for a scarlet26 splash on the hedge here and there; and dead-fingered fungi27 crowd in bunches above the graves of the flowers, and at the roots of the trees.
The fields are bare, with no coming crops; only swart and self-satisfied pigs roam in herds28 over them: the grass has stopped growing; there is neither blossom nor fruit, nor leaves upon the trees; the birds’ nests are empty and sodden;270 hope and fulfilment seem alike departed, and death seems to reign29 in solitary30 gloom over the pale and shrouded land. Is not all this sad beyond tears?
No; we are sure that this is not sad in the year, really; for that memory and hope are alike supporting the year’s aged31 steps, as it totters32 into December. The hope is to be found in every twig33, as well as in the broad brown lands that are beginning to be ruled in music lines of thin emerald. The memory suggests by analogy, and in a sweet figure, those words that have comforted many a mourner,—
“I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.”
It is not sad, really, to see the year in its bareness and barrenness; lonely winds searching over the cornless uplands, and sighing amid the stripped boughs35; dull fogs brooding over the damp fields, and shrouding36 the universal desolation and decay. No; because the fruits have been, and are garnered in. It is not that the year’s work has been left, until too late, to do. It is only that it is done. It is not sad, really; for when we walk through the dull bare fields, that once moved with millions of stalks and one whisper, we think of the heaped, massed grain, or of the crumbling37 white flour, or of the tawny square loaves. Or, if we miss the dancing grass and the bobbing clover, we look at the goodly camps of close-stacked hay, under the peaked roofs of straw. And walking through the garden or the orchard5, if for a moment we are271 chilled by the bare look of the pitiful cold boughs, black, and ragged, and starred with tears, our thought flies from these to the bright, smooth red or white cherries, and the dark blue-bloomed damsons, and the ruddy plums, and the yellow pears, and the grey greengages, and the dead-orange apricots, and the smooth nectarines, and the soft, crimson-hearted peaches,—all of which were, in their turn, yielded faithfully by those desolate branches. Ay, and we think with double satisfaction of a store yet left; of the cosy apples and freckled38 pears, sorted, wiped, and laid by in rows—brown-yellow nonpareils, streaked39 ribstones, mellow Blenheim oranges, and russets, betraying a gleam of gold just where the brown has rubbed. We may, perhaps, think—but this is a pleasing thought,—how different all would be with the year, were all this otherwise, and had the Spring, and Summer, and Autumn been squandered40 in merely making wreaths of dying flowers, that perished at the chill breath of the fogs and frosts.
Thus, then, our sober thought concludes. But still, to our fancy the year seems desolate, forlorn, and sad; the fog is a chill and heavy depression; the rain sobs43 out its heart in tears; the wind—
“Like a broken worldling wails45, And the flying gold of the ruined woodland drives through the air.”
In poetry, and even in prose, we do not most readily think of the year, between November and Christmas, as asleep after work done, but as stagnant46, and brooding in despair over a wasted life and lost opportunities, and hopes withered47 and gone by. Why does this aspect arise most naturally272 to our mind? for no such thought would trouble that of a contemplating48 angel.
Well, the truth is, that we look through coloured glass, tinting49 with a hue50 of sadness to the mind’s eye things not really sad. We see the leaves circle down, and straightway are reminded that—
“We all do fade as a leaf.”
We see the mists gather and the rain descend51, and no one but can recall heavy mists of sorrow that rose over the heart’s landscape, and glooming clouds that burst in bitter tears. And the wind gets its wail44 as it passes through our heart, and not from the bare boughs of the watered resting trees. And we choose to represent the year as thoughtlessly glad and wastefully52 profuse53 in its lost seasons, and as now broken-hearted and despairing; because this is so common a case, if not in our own experience, yet in the history of so very many about us. We cannot but think how this idle business and succeeding gloom is indeed to be found too often, too often, in the year of man’s life. Flowers, when he is young; flowers, in life’s prime; flowers, in its Autumn; and what will ye do in the end thereof? What, when the fogs and the frosts have come, and the evil days are close at hand, and the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them? Where is the secure store, the treasure laid up in the safe garner2, to cheer the heart when the sap has gone down for this year, and the fields are blank, and growth is stayed?
How foolish, we can see and should readily acknowledge;273 how unpardonably shortsighted it would be of the Year to postpone54 its work of preparing, maturing, ripening55 its fruits until the dark, short, chill days towards its end. “It is the sweet pleasure time, this Spring; wait for Summer, I will then begin. Summer, with its thick leaves and hazy56 blue—who would begin at such a time as this to work? Autumn—let me enjoy the cool bracing57 air after Summer’s heat; soon, really, a start shall be made.” And so November—and all the year’s harvest, and all the year’s fruits to be begun, grown, matured, all the year’s work crowded into the last thin group of dwindling58 days. Desolate, indeed, would the year be then, and a wild wail of “Too late!” would sweep with a shiver over the dreary land; no sunshine now, no time, no opportunity, no inclination59, no power. The sap would be sluggish60, the impulse of growth gone by; and at last a stolid61, hard frost of indifference62 and fixed63 sterility64 close the sad story of the year.
Well, this may be fanciful—yet, brothers and sisters mine, that which is fanciful in the year of Nature, which always does God’s work faithfully, even while it enjoys His glad sun and refreshing65 rain, and smiles up to Him in flowers—that which is fanciful applied66 to the life of the Year, is gravely, heart-touchingly true of many and many a life of Man. Nature,
“True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed, She renders for each scattered68 seed, And to her Lord with duteous heed69 Gives large increase: Thus year by year she works unfee’d, And will not cease.”
274
But, many among us, how do we look at this life, this brief life which God has given to each—a life which has so many close analogies with Nature’s year? For what is our short year given us? To trifle away? or to use in God’s service in preparing fruit for eternity—wheat that shall be gathered into God’s barn? The latter, you will own; and happy, if not your lips only, but your life gives this answer, too!
But how many, owning the truth of this grave view of life with their words, deny it with their deeds! Yet a little longer—there is time enough. It is now the time for enjoyment—the time for work will come. Vain to answer,
“But if indeed with reckless faith, We trust the flattering voice, Which whispers, ‘Take thy fill ere death, Indulge thee, and rejoice,’
“Too surely, every setting day, Some lost delight we mourn, The flowers all die along our way, Till we, too, die forlorn”;
and there is, then, indeed, an unredeemed bareness and desolation without the glow of memory or hope, in life’s ending days. Vain to urge this: even if the words call up a grave look for a while, the thought is soon shelved till “a convenient season.” And the life, if not the lips, of many proclaims—Let the world have my Spring, Summer, Autumn; and after that no doubt a good crop of holiness and heavenly-mindedness will yet be found in the thin last sere days of Life’s year. Let the world have the best of the year; we will spare its fragments and leavings for God. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,275 and Spring goes, and Summer passes, and Autumn dwindles70, and the foolish heart begins to discover that it is too late then. For its life is chilled, its sap gone down, its fertility exhausted71. It is not the time for blossoms now, or fruit; habits are fixed, and effort is paralysed; often ugly fungi have sprung from the ruins of comparatively innocent thoughtless delights. And this was not foreseen, nor will men believe it, although you sadly warn them of it. We read it from the Bible, we cry it from the pulpit—
“They that seek Me early shall find Me.”
“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, While the evil days come not, Nor the years draw nigh, When thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.”
“To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your hearts.”
But young and old listen, and then go home to their Sunday dinner; and other talk, and other interests, and other thoughts, dry up the water that had stood in a little pool upon the heart, but had not sunk in. God’s Spirit could have drawn it in, but His help was not heartily72 asked, even if asked at all.
* * * * *
Ah yes, is it not true, as one writes, that “men are ever beguiling73 themselves with the dream that they shall one day be what they are not now; they balance their present consciousness of a low worldly life, and of a mind heavy and dull to spiritual things, with the lazy thought that some day God will bring home to them in power the realities276 of faith in Christ. Who is there that has not at some time secretly indulged this soothing74 flattery, that the staid gravity of age, when youth is quelled75, or the leisure of retirement76, when the fret77 of busy life is over, or, it may be, the inevitable78 pains and griefs which are man’s inheritance, shall break up in his heart the now-sealed fountains of repentance79, and make, at last, his religion a reality? So men dream away their lives in pleasures, sloth80, trade, or study. Who has not allayed81 the uneasy consciousness of a meagre religion, with the hope of a future change? Who has not been thus mocked by the enemy of man? Who has not listened, all too readily, to him who would cheat us of the hour that is, and of all the spiritual earnings82 which faith makes day by day in God’s service, stealing from us the present hour, and leaving us a lie in exchange? And yet, this present hour is all we have. To-morrow must be to-day before we can use it; and day after day we squander41 in the hope of a to-morrow; but to-morrow shall be stolen away too, as to-day and yesterday. God’s kingdom was very nigh to him who trembled at the judgment83 to come. Felix trembled once; we nowhere read that he trembled again.”
Habits are stronger when we are weaker. People forget this, and imagine that they can cast off fetters84 that have grown from silken to iron, and that with force that has dwindled85 from vigour86 to impotence. That they can lie fallow all the growing time of life, and cram87 clearing, ploughing, sowing, growth, harvest, all into the dark, few, shortening days of life’s decay. “A convenient season!” Ah! does this mean, then, the end of the seasons—the meagre leavings277 of life’s year? Is this the season convenient for God’s work—for the great purpose of our being? Is spiritual life likely to be then first lifting up its head, when all life is fading away?
“Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” This is a command exquisitely88 applicable to the gleanings of an old age, whose harvest has been given to God:
“They shall still bring forth34 fruit in old age”;
—not like the old age of the year—for the fruit of this, at the best, is hips91 and haws, and holly-berries.
But can the command ever apply to a life of which the world, and the flesh, and the devil have had the harvest? Will God accept the mere42 gleanings?
“Autumn departs—from busy fields no more Come rural sounds, our kindred banks to cheer; Blent with the stream, and gale92 that wafts93 it o’er, No more the distant reaper’s mirth we hear. The last blithe94 shout hath died upon the ear, And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain: On the waste hill no forms of life appear, Save where, sad laggard95 of the Autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans96 few ears of scattered grain.”
Thus, when the world’s shouts and glee have passed by him, may we sometimes see the sad late seeker of God occupied. Sometimes, not often; for be it well laid to heart that God’s enemies seldom leave any gleanings on their fields, but are busy with careful rake to collect even life’s last days. Not often; for settled habits are hardest to overcome; and when the character and tastes are formed, there will seldom remain278 even the hearty97 wish to alter. Not often, then, but sometimes, in later life the worldling, or the devil’s labourer, turns back with wrung98 hands and tears—smitten and pricked99 to the heart by some sharp voice from God—and wanders over the bare, desolate fields in life’s chill and fog, and shakes the dreary boughs;—if perhaps there may be a little handful of corn, or an overlooked grape, or any fruit, that yet may be tremblingly offered to the Master of the Harvest, when He comes to take account with His labourers.
And now the question is, Is this late labour, labour in vain?
“Will God indeed with fragments bear, Snatched late from the decaying year? Or can the Saviour’s blood endear The dregs of a polluted life?”
He will: it can. If the heart be truly turned to Him at last, it will not be turned to Him in vain. Many of my readers will recall a beautiful allegory of servants trading for their lord, and how one, late caused to tremble and to turn, brought at the reckoning-day salt tears and rough sackcloth, that changed as he bore them into rich stuff and jewels. Aye, a broken and a contrite100 heart, if real, at no time in life will He despise. Better give the harvest than only the gleanings, but better these than nothing.
It is a base truth that men often only desert the world when the world deserts them. But, I have seen it observed, there is something very touching67 in the fact that men thus find that they must turn to God at last, after all, without Him, has disappointed, and that if they truly turn, so gracious is He,279 that He will deign101 to accept the world’s leavings. The story of the lost sheep, of the piece of money, but chiefly of the prodigal102 son, assure us of the truth of this. When he had spent all, it was,—all his rich patrimony103 of young powers, feelings, hopes, and after he had even gone after swine’s husks,—after he had spent all, the Father accepted the empty casket! When the seed-time, and the ripening-time, and the harvest-time had passed, the bare November fields and stripped boughs were accepted, because over them had gathered the mournful mist of true repentance, and because they were thickly strung with abundance of sorrowful tears!
Oh, wonderful love, not of earth, but divine!—God deigns104 to prize what earth has thrown away! Therefore let those who seem even settled on their lees, fixed in the ways of the world or of sin, let them tremble exceedingly, but let them not despair. If they will, they yet may. Let them cry to the Helper, let them retrace105 the path with tears, gleaning90 as they go a scattered rare grain here and there,—redeeming the time, although the evil days have come. There is One for whose perfect merits the harvest of the saint and the handful of the sinner shall alike find acceptance; and though ’tis best to “sin not,” nevertheless, “if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous.”
Let none presume, however; for the gleaning commonly goes the same way that the harvest has gone. And it were base indeed, designedly, to set apart only life’s leavings for God’s share. Oh, rather let those who can give life’s whole broad year to God!
Too late, too late! This, if the year had postponed106 its work,280 must be the sad burden of the winds’ wailing107 over its desolate and weed-strewn fields. But it is a thought to humble108 the heart, and bring tears of shame and gratitude109 into the eyes, that no human life with which God’s Spirit is still striving need take that bitter wail for its own. Too late to love God? Nay110, be assured that, if it be love, it shall be as tenderly, gladly welcomed as the dawn of the lonely white Christmas rose on the bare Winter beds.
“For love too late can never glow; The scattered fragments love can glean89, Refine the dregs, and yield us clean To regions where one thought serene111 Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.”
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1
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garner
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| v.收藏；取得 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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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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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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shrills
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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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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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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totters
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的第三人称单数 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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44
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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45
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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47
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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48
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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49
tinting
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| 着色，染色（的阶段或过程） | |
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50
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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51
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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52
wastefully
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| 浪费地，挥霍地，耗费地 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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54
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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55
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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74
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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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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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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wafts
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| n.空中飘来的气味，一阵气味( waft的名词复数 )；摇转风扇v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的第三人称单数 ) | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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gleans
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的第三人称单数 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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99
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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101
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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102
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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103
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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104
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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106
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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107
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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108
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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109
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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