The memory of my old friends and companions has a tender charm for me, and I look at the stripped rose-twigs13, and at the brown mould where the flowers were, with a faint halo of that feeling which is keen at the heart, when we pace among the mounds15 that hide the dust of friends. There is promise everywhere, I know, and the naked twigs are strung with germs of future leaves, and there are next year’s flowers sleeping at the heart of the rose. But I rather cling to any relic16 of the past, than care just now to look forward; and I hail this lingering arrested bud with the buff-yellow petals17, or this half-shattered pure white blossom, as belonging to the sweet array of the dead flowers. True, I accept this cluster of the winter-cherry, leaning forward on to the path, an orange globe in a golden network; and the unfolding buds of the Christmas rose,—as being a link between the past and the future. But my thoughts slant18 backwards19 now, as I look upon the setting sun of the year; nor am I, in this mood, regarding it from the point that it will rise again all fresh and new to-morrow. No, I am not now concerned with the lovely wealth of leaves and flowers, the new year’s dower,—so soon all spent,—so soon all spent;—I am now of a mind to muse20 under the
“Bare ruined choirs21, where late the sweet birds sang.”
287 Let me sit down under this network of sycamore and chesnut boughs, while the faint patches of pale sunlight move about me on the rank and drenched22, yet ungrowing grass; let me sit down under the bare boughs, while the brown, wet, marred24 leaves huddle25 by the side of the garden seat, and under the barred plank26 that serves as my footstool. I dare say my old and unfailing friend will soon come and perch27 near me, his lover, and match the sad cheery gleams of sunlight with sad cheery gleams of song. Bird of the mild dark loving eye, and quick quiet motion, and olive plumage, and warm sienna-red breast; bird of the soft song,—passion subdued28 now to tenderness, hope that has sunk to patience, eagerness that is merged29 in tranquillity,—faithful bird, whose every tone and motion, familiar and loved, seems to fit the Winter heart as well as the Spring fancy,—those fervent31, passionate32 songsters of the Spring, that now are flown, they never drowned to my ear thy quiet song of peace; no, not even in the days when the nightingale’s thrilling utterance33 made the world as it were full of the unsubstantial beauty of a dream. And so now I feel a sort of right to the calm and comfort of thy tranquil30, unfailing utterance, when the evanescent dream has passed away, and the disenchanted world stands naked. Thus, while you are young, O my friends, and all the boughs are clothed, and all the birds are singing, and your heart makes answer to the loveliness and the music,—do not disdain34, then, to listen to and to heed35 that quieter voice which tells, in an undertone, very beautiful, if attended to, of the love of God. Your heart, if you knew it, cannot really afford to dispense288 with it when all the woods are loud, “and all the trees are green.” And if you did hear and heed and love it then, ah, how exquisite36, how refreshing37, how more than cheering the faithful notes appear, as you sit meditating38 under a pale winter sky, and looking at silent, leafless boughs,—and the songster draws nearer to you then, finding you alone!
* * * * *
Well, let me, I say, sit me down on this garden seat, under these “bare ruined choirs,” and hail the one little chorister, whose quiet, modest song ever seems to me to compensate39 for the absence of all the rest. The dewdrops twinkle about me in the drenched grass, groups of brown toadstools cluster here and there, and wax-white fungi40 straggle away in a broken line; there is a scarlet41 gleam of hips42 in the rose-bushes under the shrubbery, and of mountain-ash higher above them. It is Winter, but nature has not forgotten to stick some sprays of Christmas about her bare pillars, and to twist them in devices about her arches, that run up around me into this groined roof above.
The first thing that we all should muse about, under the bare boughs, would be, I suppose, the leaves that once clad them. Ay, even if, under the full shading foliage43, we never thought to give them an upward glance of gratitude44, love, and admiration45. But they are gone, and what was taken as a matter of course is valued, now that it is missed. There is repining as to the desolation of Winter, and this from those who did not consciously enjoy the Summer.
I cannot reproach myself on this score. I have loved and learnt by heart every shape and development, from the first289 vivid light of green to the sombre sameness of hue46, and then the rich variety that dispersed47 this;—all this growth, and attainment49, and decay have I heedfully and affectionately noted51, during the space which separated last year’s bare boughs from these.
“A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime.”
Yes, I saw that,—and I watched the juicy foliage deepen, and the thin maize-coloured strips of flower chequer the darkening full mass, and change the picture into
“The lime, a summer home of murmurous52 wings.”
Then those curved chesnut boughs near the grass—I detected the first fresh crumpled53 gleam, bursting from the brown sticky buds, until all over the tree, as in an illumination,
“The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air.”
And so I watched them into milky54 spires55, and swarthy green globes, that grew brown, and fell, and burst threefold, lying among the heaped leaves, such a picture, with the white lining56 and bright nut!
The beech57, changing from soft silky fledging of its boughs into hardier58 green foliage, and afterwards becoming a very mint, each branch
“All overlaid with patines of bright gold”;
and so subsiding59 into a sparer dress of sienna brown.
“The pillared dusk of sounding sycamores.”
290
The brave oaks, soon passing out of their Chaucerian attire60,
“Some very red, and some a glad light green,”
and now all gnarled and knotted, and only clutching still a wisp of pale dull dry leaves here and there:—all these, be sure, have had their meed of attention and of regard from me. And so I sit under the bare boughs with no remorseful61 if with some regretful feelings. But still, I say, who can look up at the stripped branches in the Winter without sometimes giving fancy and memory leave to clothe them again with the fair frail62 dreams and hopes and enjoyments291 that, though they were evanescent, yet were beautiful, and that, though passing away with the Summer of Time, yet no doubt have influenced the Eternal growth of the Tree. Yes, sometimes it will be graceful63, and at least not harmful, to let memory wander back into the days of childhood and of youth, and bid the frail and inexperienced foliage cover the branches again with that rich but short-lived beauty:
“Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom64 hopes assemble; And that child’s heart within the man’s Begins to move and tremble.”
Aye, there they are again, for a moment, shimmering65 in the sunlight and in the shade, “clapping their little hands in glee.” But we start, and they are gone. And, instead, how clearly we may see the blue Sky through the stripped boughs!
* * * * *
I remember, some time ago, sitting under some sycamore trees, near the sea-side. Of course those trees are all bare now, but the leaves were then at the fall. It was just at that time of the year when all the sweeping66 in the world will not keep the lawn tidy, and every gust67 littered it with the crisp, curled leaves. Amid this surely advancing decay there was, however, a pathetic effort towards renovation68 and new life. The year could hardly yet quietly acquiesce5 in the truth that its once exuberant69 power of growth was over, and that it must give in to stagnation70 increasing to decay. The like of this we may trace in the human year: in the faded Beauty; in the worn-out Author and Wit; and292 there is always a sadness about the sight. Under the nearly black leaves some very yellow-green ones were clustering upon the lower shoots; a late frond71 or two bent72 timidly amid the burnt and battered73 growth of the fernery; autumn crocuses came like ghosts upon the rich moist beds, but fell prone74 with an overmastering weakness; one gleam of laburnum drooped75, and two white clusters of pear-blossom tried to ignore the heavy mellowing76 fruit; and some frail crumpled bramble-bloom appeared among the blackberries; tenderest and most touching77, but wildest and most abortive78 endeavour, a primrose79, too pale even for that pale flower, started up here and there out of the long draggled, ragged80 leaves. I know that many days ago winter must have frightened away all this frail gathering81, the more easily and suddenly, because of their weakness and timidity. But I took pleasure in watching and moralising upon the impotent yet graceful struggle. And then, I recall, I sat down under the trees, much as I do now, and in much such a day. The flickering82 spots of faint sunlight moved slowly on the sward: the day was calm, after a wild windy Summer. It was cool for Autumn as this is warm for Winter, and so the two days were near akin83, except for this one difference, that the leaves were mostly still upon the trees. They had begun in good earnest to fall, but they were still left in considerable numbers upon the boughs. And I fell, after some unconscious watching these leaves, into a fit of musing84 upon them. There was a peculiarity85 about them all which caught my attention. Let me set down, under these bare boughs, some of my thoughts at that time. It can be done the less unkindly293 now that that generation of leaves has all, some weeks ago, fluttered away.
The peculiarity was this. The trees being within the scope of many contending and fierce and unremitting winds, there was not upon any twig14, that I could see, one single perfect leaf. Perhaps a young one, just born, and to die almost as soon as born, might keep somewhat of its intended shape. But those that had endured the fierce winds and the heat and the rain and the blights87,—ah, how shattered and scarred and stained they were! Some marred out of any trace of the intention of their birth; rent and beaten into a sorry strip, hardly to be called a leaf at all. But even the best were defaced and disfigured, spotted88 and imperfect.
Now sentiment about these leaves would, obviously, be extremely ill-placed. But my thought traced in these battered masses of the sycamore a picture of this life of ours, until the trees almost became a mirror, in which I, with the myriad89 race of much-enduring men, seemed to be exactly reflected. Not one perfect leaf; many so shattered and stained and marred. So beaten out of that pattern to which God had designed them. Some with hardly the very least trace of that Image in which mankind was at first moulded. Most with little to remind us of it. But, saddest of all, it seemed to me, there was not one, not even the best, which would bear close inspection90. Not one but, even if the shape were somewhat preserved, had yet some ugly scar or hole or crack; not one perfect, no, not one!
And so it is, that we are in truth fain to accept for our idea of a good man here, merely that one who is least defaced294 and disfigured. The wise among men, what is he, but only one not quite so foolish as most others. The kind, only one that is less often cruel. The dutiful, and obedient, only one that is at least and at best inadequately92 trying among the gross that are utterly93 careless, to fear God, and to regard man. How negative most of our goodness is, and the qualities whose possession inspires our fellow-men with admiration! A good son, a good husband—this surely only means one who is not bad, undutiful, unjust, unkind. And yet who could lay claim to either title, nor exhibit some, yea many, flaws and spots? And for positive goodness—ah, well, if it were not for the utterly marred and ragged growth with which we are surrounded, there would be little fear, surely of any, such as are we, laying claim to the possession of that here. Great and good men?—Rent and shattered, rent and shattered; and if in comparison with the shreds94 about us, we trace in ourselves some hint of the original shape, how often we must then think, “I was more in shelter, lower down on the tree,” and how little inclined shall we be, contemplating95 sadly our own stains and clefts96, to think superciliously97 and pharisaically of those mere91 strips that, growing on the higher boughs, seemed the prey98 of every rough wind that blew.
“Safe home, safe home in port!— Rent cordage, shattered deck, Torn sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck99.”
This seems the most that the best can say. And that this is so, appears to me sad. God’s hand is not shortened, that295 it cannot save; and I puzzle about this long and universal history of successes which are but half-failures. Inveterate101 as is the evil of our nature, vast as has been its fall, yet, I ask myself, is there any limit to the stores of God’s grace? And, with such an armoury, ought the fight to be so sorry, only just not a defeat? I know we cannot attain48; I know that perfection must fly before us, and ever elude102 our grasp, in this state. I know, by a guess, that the nearer we seem to it, in the view of others, surely the farther we shall, in our own view, appear to be behind it, the more vainly striving after it. And I know, nevertheless, that the soul hungry and thirsty for righteousness shall have even here some daily bread, to satisfy just the most restless gnawing103 of its desire, and that hereafter it shall fully50 feast, and be satisfied, at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb.
But what distresses104 me is this: that even truly good men are often, if not always, so disappointing. You were awakened105 to the loveliness of Christianity, and yearning106 for sympathy and advice; you sought one of those ideals which seemed, to hope and fancy, sure to be embodiments of it—and how often a chilling want of gentleness, or patience, or tenderness, closed up the heart’s opening blossom! Or carrying some opportunity for serving Christ in the person of a poor member of His Body, to one who, you felt sure, would, at least, meet you with kindliness107, if unfortunately other calls precluded108 aid: how often a cold manner or a chilling snub disappoints and damps you! There is frequently too much bloodless, abstract faith, where you expected warm human interest; and wounded and hurt296 and baffled, you betake yourself to the only perfect sympathy, that of God. There is hardness, where you had taken for granted Christ’s tenderness would be found; there is bitterness, where you had counted upon Christ’s badge of love (St. John xiii. 35); there is pride, even, where you had never dreamed of finding anything but absolute humility109. There is anxiety about worldly matters, where you had pictured a perfect, restful trust in God; carefulness and trouble about many things, where you had looked forward to seeing at last the calm sitting at the Saviour’s feet. There is irritability110, and fussiness111 at trifles, where you had dreamed that things of eternal moment would alone have greatly moved: there is, upon the whole, disappointment, where you had looked for the realisation of that Ideal which you possess, and after which you did not wonder to find your own weak self vainly toiling113. The winds and the blights seem too much for poor human nature, that will not draw, as it might, upon Divine grace; and upon every branch that we examine, there is not a leaf that is not sadly marred and imperfect; no, not one.
I know this must be, in a measure, in this wingless, fallen state. I know that in the sight of God and of angels, yea, of our own selves, if we have at all really learned what goodness is, the best of us are but weak buffeters of those waters of evil in which many around us are drowning. Still, without taking an Angel’s point of view, might not our light, at least before men, shine a little more brightly and consistently, and not be made up of mere alternations of spasmodic flares114 and dimness or darkness? Must there be so many spots of inconsistency, so297 many rents of surely elementary and avoidable unloveliness; so many high places not taken away, even though God be served somewhat in His Temple; such marring flies making even genuine and precious ointment112 to stink115?
Oh, I often think that in this world and in this day, there lies a great opportunity unclaimed! When we see the powerful influence which even a broken and unequal attempt at service, at fulfilling the mere elements of our duty to God and to man, exerts upon a world where it is the rare exception even to attempt earnestly, then I think, what might not a perseverance116 beyond the first steps (and God’s grace knows no stint), what might not a steady advance towards perfection work in this sceptical, critical, anxious, weary world? This world narrowly watches for flaws, and, finding them, strengthens itself in its carelessness and godlessness. But if compelled to acknowledge a reality, a fulfilment of those theories which it has come to consider as scarcely meant, quite impossible, to be reduced to practice; if forced to acknowledge a sterling117 goodness, human and yet Divine, which stands the searching tests by which men try profession; it will then fall vanquished118 before it, and, in many things, surrender itself to the influence of a goodness alike strict, gracious, and glad. If the good man set sentinels at all sides of his life, and not only at one or two chosen posts; if he were ever trimming his lamp, seeking and pouring in more oil; not letting any slovenly119 black fungus120 grow on the wick, and dim part of the flame—how much might a few such bright and steady lights do in reproving the darkness, and bringing out sister gleams! How might we, thus rebuked121, instead of298 resting proud of our sickly glimmer122, set to work in good earnest, with watchfulness123 and prayer, to mend our flame, until the noble rays of the lighthouse, and the clustering lesser124 lights beneath, might lure100 some that were driven and tossed homelessly upon the treacherous125, troubled seas. Now the lights often go out when they are wanted, and the beacon126 is dark just when a despairing look was cast towards it; and so the dreary127, hopeless course is renewed.
A perfect man must be kind and wise, patient and loving,—not one whose life shall make the worldling sore and resentful, but shall rather make him sad and longing,—not one who boasts to be a “man of prayer,” but forgets to be a man of love,—not one who makes Faith the cuckoo nestling that edges out Charity,—not one too much absorbed in devotion, and even divine and religious contemplation, to enter into the difficulties, and wants, and cries, and doubts, and struggles of those beneath the mountain which he is ascending128. He must be one of a universal kindliness,—of an always ready sympathy for any feeling which he perceives to be real, howsoever it find no echo in his own heart; one ever just, generous, forbearing, forgiving; ever ready to stop and to descend129 to raise the fallen; firm and fixed130 in principle, but tender and gentle in heart; speaking the truth, but speaking it still in love; severity against sin never swamping yearning for the sinner; never base or mean in things large or little; always ready to suppose the best of others; never vaunting, never puffed131 up; not easily provoked; thinking no evil; rejoicing with the joyful132, weeping with the sad; hard only upon himself; bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all299 things, enduring all things. Never giving others to understand that he has already attained133, or is already perfect; not counting himself to have apprehended134, but pressing toward the mark. Alas135! it is true that men are mostly content with a very low standard, and if they seem to themselves and others to have attained that, easily rest there;—and the great opportunity passes away ungrasped.
Torn leaves, tattered136 leaves, at best marred and imperfect, not one approaching perfection, not one without a flaw. Ah, yes, one,—and one only. How glorious the thought that in Christ, born into the world, and taking our nature upon Him,—in Christ, the Seed of the woman,—this our poor human nature, tattered, torn, and defaced, is exalted137 into absolute and eternal Perfection. All the fiercest storms and blights and heats attacked our nature in Him, but attacked it in vain. The most minute and scrutinising examination can here detect no least speck139, or swerving140 from the ideal of symmetry. In Him we see what we long, vainly it seems, to be. In Him we see that towards which He would exalt138 us, if we will be exalted,—that which we may in a sense attain, if we will be perfected. And so at last we turn from sad contemplation of innumerable greater or less failures, and dwell restfully and hopefully upon the only and all-sufficient perfect One. To be like Him when He shall appear, oh, glorious hope that He has given us! to awake thus in the Spring of the Next Year, and this in a Land where there are no blights, nor colds, nor heats, to mar23 that shape. But let us remember, that having this hope, we should even now be purifying ourselves, even as He is pure.
300 But here a burst of little ones comes into the garden, anxious for my leave and help to cut boughs of the holly141 and the box to clothe the rooms for Christmas, and to divert thoughts of the bare boughs that stand without. And it is well that my musings should thus be interrupted, and should thus end. Among the bare branches of the saddest thought there may still be found warm-berried evergreens142, planted by God’s love here and there. And all that tells here of Death and Winter, tells of that which is temporary and evanescent, now that the LIFE has come into the world. Even the cold stripped trees and the buried flowers,—there is hope in their death,—and how much are we better than they!
And thus the Poet whom I quoted above goes on to thought of that Spring from the contemplation of the rending143 winds and stripping Winter here:
“Safe home, safe home in port!— Rent cordage, shattered deck, Torn sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck. But, oh, the joy upon the shore, To tell our voyage perils144 o’er!
“The prize, the prize secure! The athlete nearly fell, Bare all he could endure, And bare not always well; But he may smile at troubles gone, Who sets the victor garland on.”
Well, I must muse no longer, I see, but give up myself to the will of the children. Come along, then, and let us make301 all bright and cheery at this joyous145 season. Tall sprays of thick-berried holly; golden winter cherries, laurel, and yew146, and box; ay, and if you will, Cyril shall climb the old mossy gnarled apple-tree, and bring down a branching bunch of that pale-green, Druid-loved parasite147, with its berries like opal beads148. In this happy time the children may well claim to have their “time to laugh,” and to rejoice; and the elders may look on or join with kindly86 geniality149. Yea, we may say, “It is meet that we should make merry and be glad;—for this our earth was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.”
Laugh and be happy, therefore, at the Christmas time. Only in enjoying the holiday, let not its etymology150 and true meaning be altogether lost sight of. And remember that it is only the thought of the Spring of Eternity151 that can take away the sadness from the contemplation of Time’s bare boughs.
The End
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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petunias
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| n.矮牵牛（花）( petunia的名词复数 ) | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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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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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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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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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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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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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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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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38
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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39
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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40
fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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41
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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42
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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43
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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44
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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45
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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46
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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47
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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48
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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49
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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50
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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51
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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52
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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53
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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54
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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55
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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56
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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57
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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58
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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59
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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60
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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61
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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62
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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63
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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64
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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65
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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66
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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67
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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68
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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69
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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70
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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71
frond
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| n.棕榈类植物的叶子 | |
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72
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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73
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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74
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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75
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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77
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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78
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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79
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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80
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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81
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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82
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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83
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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84
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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85
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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86
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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87
blights
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| 使凋萎( blight的第三人称单数 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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88
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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89
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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90
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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91
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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92
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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93
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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94
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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95
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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96
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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97
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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98
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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99
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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100
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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101
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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102
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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103
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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104
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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105
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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106
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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107
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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108
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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109
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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110
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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111
fussiness
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| [医]易激怒 | |
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112
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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113
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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114
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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115
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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116
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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117
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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118
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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119
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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120
fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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121
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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123
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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124
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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125
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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126
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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127
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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128
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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129
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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130
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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131
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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132
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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133
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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134
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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135
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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136
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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137
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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138
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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139
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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140
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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141
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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142
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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143
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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144
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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145
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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146
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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147
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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148
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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149
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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150
etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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151
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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