In a room in an hotel of the south some one was lying ill. It was March, and an airless, parching1 heat lay outside, the palms drooped2 yellow leaves, the bee-eaters chattering3 on a carob-bush dived luxuriantly into corn so green that they were in no wise distinguished4 from it; they turned and fluttered like butterflies, and from the bronze wing feathers a sheen of gold rippled5 over their emerald in the sun.
Inside the room was as cool as it might be; when, from time to time, the shutters7 were opened the glory of gold and green outside flashed into sight. Outside life was heavy with heat, luxuriant, substantial; bounded, limited and weighed down by its very fullness.
Inside life had dwindled8 to a thin thread of consciousness, or rather it seemed like two strands9 worn nearly to breaking lying side by side. The one, the actual physical consciousness of a corporal life ebbing10, of breath drawn11 with difficulty; of physical sensation not perhaps actually painful, but almost altogether wearying—a consciousness close to that mysterious land of delusions12, where the physical symptoms are set apart from the personal consciousness and become external antagonistic13 forces. It was not intolerable because it was becoming a thing more and more external, more separate from that other spiritual consciousness with which it was still lightly entwined.
And that other thread of being, how shall one describe it? It was not quite continuous, for now and again the physical sensation numbed14 it; now and then, when times of refreshment15 came, the other like a stream rose and engulfed16 it.
Compare that old image of the Rhone and the Saone. The one flows on, blue, clear, transparent18; the other side by side, turbulent, muddy and swift. The man lying here seemed to himself to be both, but most of all the clearer thinner stream. The turbulence19, the force of the other is daily less and less himself, more and more an alien power to which he yet jealously clings in the body of this death, and will not, cannot part from it.
And from time to time comes a new impulse of the stronger torrent—its yellowing waters tinge20 the blue—it is fuller, and there is a sense of well-being21; and yet that transparent river of spiritual being, clear as crystal, has been sullied, it has disappeared.
Such little trivial things too will give him back the life which is his power and his bondage;—the cup of iced coffee, that he looks for and can drink when other food nauseates22, this makes him feel that he lives again and yet kills that clearer, sweeter, finer, life;—as much, in a sense, as overpowering bodily discomfort23 kills it—more, perhaps, for the more it overpowers the more external it is, the less it is himself.
If only he can keep from fear, for that kills all. And yet this thread of consciousness, which I have called spiritual, is not thinking any thought, it is seeing visions, and these visions are not of another world but of the sweeter, purer things of this world, transfigured and serene24. He is a child again in a Cornish lane, and the grass is deep and dewy, the banks are high, crowned with little bushes nearly bare of leaf, for it is spring; deep in the grass are primroses25, long stalked and growing by the handful, you can thrust your hand into the damp grass, rich in little ferns and unnamed leaves, and pluck them so; between the primroses there are violets—are they purple or grey or blue?—and here and there a celandine, golden yellow. Or he is a boy sitting on a rock; his feet are bare, the sea is shallow round him, the ripples26 run out, and the sun shining through them laces the fine sand below with gold. He tells the nurses that as soon as he is well he will go to the sea and dip his feet in it.
Then he thinks of music that he knows, and it comes with unutterable sweetness of cadence27 like music heard in dreams.
And this radiance lies not only on things imagined but on things seen. The roses brought into the room are the roses of Dorothea; the scent28 of the palm, in blossom outside, fills the room with an ethereal fragrance29; and oh, those clusters of waxen palm flowers that his friends bring in and place in the green jug30, surely it must come from that tree whose very leaves are for the healing of the nations!
It is only at night that the horror comes—no nameless horror, but the horror of fighting with the darkness; it is hot, and it stifles31. The doctors have been, and he knows their report is not good though no one has told him so. The medicine bottles begin to change; there is one like a knight32’s head near the candle, he knows it is only a cork33 in it, but it is very like the armoured head of a knight; and the darkness comes near, it oppresses all, laying a heavy hand on the world: it is too near, too heavy, all round us and weighing on us above.
He sleeps, to shout at the people in the room—he asks the nurse to expel the Arab who is beside the bed. He knows they are not there at all, but he does not want to sleep, for he will wake in that horrible strangle of breath. It is so long, if only there were any light at all! Weary, interminable length, and some lines of a poem run in his mind:
“An hour or two more and God is so kind
The day will be blue in the window blind.”
“Thank the kind God the carts come in.”
They come in so early in London.—Only an hour or two is quiet in the night, and you would know that the world is alive again, one would not have to keep the darkness long at bay; but here the night is day-long. Brandy—what is the good? The smell is nauseating34; but it is at his lips, and he drinks. Has he slept? but it is black and still and dark, the dogs howl and scuffle past the window. Hours more to come, hours of the blackness. One of these people who is about the room sits down by the bed. She is not terrifying. She is only an old lady with grey hair, but she expects something. She must be told to go away; they will not tell her, and he is angry with urging. But of course she was not really there, it was only a dream; so he must have slept again, and the minutes must have passed.
There is a hint of grey in the sky, the whisper of a breeze in the palm leaves—dawn is coming. Now there is one hour of horror to go through, for the windows must be shut; he cannot breathe—he cannot live like this for an hour. The door into the passage may be opened, and the nurse’s step falls cold and echoing on the stone outside; no one else is moving, it is all grey and cold; he knows how that empty passage must look. This is better, for the blackness is going.
He sees the palm-trees outside above the muslin blinds; all the world is still and dead, its light gone out, but it can be rekindled35. From the other window nothing can be seen but colourless sky, but the sky itself begins to kindle36 into life.
Suddenly something falls across the muslin blind; a bar, and a dot of sunlight, of that molten gold of Egyptian sunshine before the day has dried it into dust of gold. Oh the extraordinary beauty of that gold! Has sunshine been always in the world before, and yet we never knew it was like that? The darkness has passed, the light shines, the rapture37 and the beauty of the light spreads and broadens; the sky is awake, the garden is alive, the night is gone—and now the window towards the south is thrown open, and very faint and fair, a delicate violet light lies on the hills beyond the river. The air is blown in sweet, fragrant38, unspeakably pure; and that carob-tree on which the birds sat yesterday is green and fresh, and below is the blue-green of the corn into which they dropped.
An Arab is riding on his camel along the dyke39, they are outlined against that purple hill. So people still live and move outside; they can move then, they can go where they wish. But he sees the sun, and the breath of heaven comes in, and the night is passed. He is tired with this warring against the night, but the light has come and the clearer, brighter river is flowing again. This is day.
What is this land where the spirit has been living? Is it the land of Beulah or the Valley of the Shadow? Which is most real? He knows which is most substantial, but why is it most real? The instrument is more substantial than the melody and infinitely40 less real. Yet when the veil grows thin which hides the glory of the vision, agonizing41 we entreat42 that it may not be removed and show the glory of the face.
II
“The luminous43
Star-inwrought, beautiful
Folds of the Veil.”
Many have written of the journey down to the dark river; few have told of the road backward from the river’s brink44; a road of sudden ecstasies45 and sordid46 pitfalls47.
For the radiance lay over the earth when he turned his face to it again. Nothing was ever sweeter than the sight of palm leaves against the blue upon the banks of the Nile. As the shores streamed past, with the rosy48 hills and yellow lights above them, winged feluccas furling sail, or sweeping49 like birds across the blue, with the roaring of the swiftness of their motion, he could lie and look—weary with rapture—watching the figures sprung from the old Palestinian story—a rugged50 Peter wrapping his fisher’s cloak about him, or urging his fellows “I go a-fishing.” But slowly, imperceptibly, the walls of the world closed in again; the sun beat pitilessly down; the heavens were brass51, the earth iron. Now and again they would open out at the sight of the sapphire52 sparkle of the Mediterranean53, or the deep, green growth under blossoming orchards55 of France. The wind became the life-giving breath of the spirit, and the soul would “beat” against “mortal bars,” seeing infinite power, infinite possibility, lying but just beyond the frail56 partition; a touch, and he might glide57 from the mountain side down over the trees that slept in the noonday of the valley; a hand on the eyes, and they would see to the truth that lies beneath form and colour of earthly things; a finger on the ear, and he would hear the very meaning of the wind and of the trickle58 of the stream—the gift of tongues would be an imaginably natural incident.
Yet next day, at some trifling59 ailment60, death and its terrors compass him about, and the man shakes as with ague under the fear of it and shame of cowardice61. Or he wakes every morning seemingly refreshed, only to fall by midday into a gulf17 of blackness and mistrust, sordid, not tragic62, not dignified63; and he sits tongue-tied, seeing a sneer64 in every smile, marvelling65 that men do not see the loathsomeness67 and terror that lie around them, but walk unconcerned among the dangers that encompass68. Then again life returns in full flood, and the fears and the terrors are as the fabric69 of a dream.
A long, strange way, full of inexplicable70 joys and sorrows, hopes and fears—a far longer path to travel in the spirit than that by which he came “out of the iron furnace, even out of Egypt,” to the cool airs and sweet quiet of an old English country house in wooded downs touched by the freshness of the sea. There in the south, after the first bound towards health, life had stood still; the parched71, sapless land could yield dry, clear air, sharp bright sunlight, but no refreshment of health and of spirit, nothing that could be compared to the misty72 mornings, and soft dewy evenings of a mild English spring. There the spring brings no refreshment; March reaps her harvest and the palm leaves hang dry and yellowish: here all life was stirring after the winter sleep, and earth was striving in her own finite way to make all things new. It was long since he had seen an English spring, and the eye could not be satisfied with gazing.
He first noticed it when, looking on the wintry copses, he saw that a thin ripple6 of life had run over the ground; among brown stalks and withered73 leaves so slight a flush of green that you could hardly say, “It is here” or “It is there,” nor surely know the change was worked to the outer eye or noted74 by the reanimate perception. Then the fine veil of skeleton branches against the sky, through, under, beyond which he could see the blue downs of the coast, thickened, and they warmed in colour; till the brown of the elm became purple, and the brown of the beeches75 red, and the willow76 golden: then the elm burst into its little purple rosettes but the others stayed. And now crept out those little silvery creatures which the children call palms; like little downy animals, so sweet, so comfortable that the child must half believe they are alive. Early in April the clumps77 of crocus in the turf, purple and yellow, were dying, but the daffodils were beginning to take their place, strewing78 the rough grass with flowers of milky79 gold. A week later the snake-heads were drawing themselves out of the turf, with head curved downwards80 like a swan preening81 its breast; primroses were waking in the lanes, the larch82 was hanging “rosy plumelets,” the silver leaf buds of the apple were out, and the flower of the peach.
This was cuckoo day, and punctual to the moment they hooted83 in the wood below; they had come in good time for the later nests, for the wagtails had taken their last year’s tenement84 again in the ivied wall, and the untidy sparrows were littering lawn and garden.
Again a week, and the cherry buds showed fawn85 coloured; two days they stayed so, then a little tree burst into flower. Two days more, and the orchard54 looked as if a snow shower had lightly fallen. At last one windy day white blossoms came drifting down among the scarlet86 tulips, and after this a rose-tinge passed over the trees, like a faint sunset on the snow, and then the glory was gone. But the expanding spirit could not bewail the glory gone, for warmer weather came with sun like summer, so that the plum-tree on the wall burst into flower one morning while one sat under it; a purple iris87 appeared, the blackthorn whitened, and in the garden beds the peonies and lilies shot up, anemones89 dozed90 half their radiant life away in royal groups, purple and scarlet. The remembrance of trembling and helplessness fell from the man, and he laughed to see the peacock’s grave and measured dance and the fierce cock chaffinch wooing in his bright spring coat.
So the spring returned, unfolding infinite new delights, sometimes hurrying, sometimes delaying; the copses clothed themselves in foliage91 as light as a birch grove92, with all fine gradations of colour from the grey palms grown old, to the golden oaks beginning, and all life and all activity responded. Though storms and chill might check the budding, the renewal93 of the spring moved in man and nature, as man and nature shook off the memory of death and winter, warmed and revivified in the waxing power of the sun.
And the world found voice for its joy, and it was joy to lie awake in the hour before dawn, while the last fine song of the nightingale still lingered in the memory, and hear the untutored song echo from bush to bush; when the thrush and the blackbird waked, and the starling chattered94, and the cock chimed in with the lusty bar of music of his bugle95 call, and all in chorus welcomed the day, and ceased.
And one morning, as the man leaned out of his window to drink the sweet air of growing things, he saw suddenly, that the desire of spring was satiate. The trees had burst their buds and made a glory of golden leaves. Life no longer pulsed, stayed, hurried on, but flowed in the full tide of summer. Summer would burst into glories of beauty and odour on this side and on that, but the fresh impulse of spring was over. And the man leaned out and revelled96 in it. The rough bank had covered its scars with lush green grass; and leaves, stems, and branches were hidden. He revelled in the odorous, sun-warmed air, in the pleasant kindly97 earth with its beauties, in the sight and sound of the happy living things, and he looked away towards the hills, but they were hidden. Then all at once he saw the blindness of content, and he cried out “Oh my soul, where are the heavenly horizons and the distant misty hills?”
For while he gazed, the veil had fallen; at first translucent98, radiant; threads fine as gossamer99 shining with light, so that they seemed but to illuminate100 the distance. Then the veil was inwrought with flowers and as each new beauty came, he said “This is God’s work, and I can see Him in this; all this symbolizes101 the light of His countenance102, and I see Him in His world.” And of each human interest and activity he said, “This is God’s work, for it is the work of His children.” So it fell fold on fold, thickening imperceptibly, full of sweet odours as it fell, and the voices of birds; and he did not know that the focus of his view was contracting, and that he was beginning to look not through the veil but at it. And he did not see that there was another hand at work and other threads in the web, grosser, more earthly, and darker yet; and that as it was woven, warp103 and woof, other hands threw the shuttle.
So it fell, closing out the heavenly vision, hiding too the clouds and darkness round God’s seat; and he found himself gazing on the veil which men call this world. Then with a great struggle he cried, “In the time of our wealth, good Lord deliver us.”
III
The year came round again, and this man had found no contentment for mind or heart. He was such a one as had always believed in the unity104 of God and nature, had held the visible universe to be the robe of His glory and the material to be like clothing which partly hides and partly reveals the form.
He was a man whom God had chastened a little in the flesh, so that He might know the Hand that touched him, yet had given him no loathsome66
[164]
evil thing to be with him, so that he must hate even the body that served him. God had given him amply of the good things of life and sufficiently105 of its sorrows to make him know the first were good. He had early looked into the empty tomb and seen that since even the body can in time elude106 it, it would be beyond reason and belief to dream that the soul can be prisoned by it. For the soul is not even prisoned by the body, seeing that it can walk among the stars, thread the secret places of the earth, or dive into the seas, while the eyes of the body stare upon a book; or it can fight battles and go through many strange adventures and visit distant lands while the eyes are closed and the body is laid upon the bed. Therefore this man had long believed in his soul, though he had not taught his life and his fancies that though the material sometimes appears to be greater and stronger and older than the spiritual, yet that this is merely as the flower seems to one who looks not below the ground to be more vital than the root. So though he believed this, the man could not understand what the truth of the world might be. For he saw that although one may rejoice in its beauties and delight even in wholly innocent things, believing truly that they come from God, yet many men thus go astray. And when he listened to the voices of the dearest of God’s servants he became all the more perplexed107. For one cried “All things are yours, things present as well as things to come”; but another said “Love not the world.” Again he heard one say “It is good to be here; let us build three tabernacles”; and saw him that said it straightway led into the dust and turmoil108 of the incredulous crowd. And the sweetest voice said now “Deny yourself,” and now “Consider the lilies, consider the birds.”
This man was a man who always loved the water. It made a great calm in his mind to see the sea spread calm before his feet; the storm of the sea filled him with life, and to die in the sea would, he thought, be like a child sinking to sleep in its mother’s arms. Clear, translucent water drew him with a great longing109, and he dreamt often that he should bathe, but as his feet touched the water it ebbed110 away.
Now near his home there spread, embowered in trees, a great lake; on one side ran a road neglected and seldom used, from this the lake ran up curving out of sight. Half-way up towards the curve there stood a great oak, and beneath this he often bathed. So being in this perplexity he went out one summer morning, passed through the sleeping village and by the church, and went down to the lake.
And in the turn of the year again the woods were lightly foliaged, and the branches shone golden between the leaves; the ground beneath the oak was carpeted with hyacinths and primroses, here and there a late anemone88 starred it.
Here he undressed and plunged111 from a little height into a pool. His hands parted the water, which rushed up him as he plunged; then he gave himself up to the element and it lifted him to the surface. Again he warred with it, yet moved by means of it, with steady stroke parting it, and again he turned over and yielded himself up to it, and the least movement was enough to keep him floating on the surface, and he rejoiced in the coolness and the purity. So when he had finished he returned and clothed himself, and moved on through the edge of the wood, looking at the water, wondering at a transparency that was so deep and the strength of the fleeting112 thing, till he came to where a little wooden bridge spanned the overflow113 from the lake; and upon the bridge a boy of about eight years old was sitting.
He was not dressed like a village child; his cap lay beside him with a little spray of reddening oak stuck into it, and he was staring at the water.
“Who are you, my son?” said the man as he passed.
“I’m a king,” the child replied; “but I’m an outlaw114 just now, you see,” he went on, laying his hand on his cap. “I can’t get into my kingdom.”
“Where is your kingdom?” asked the man.
“Come down here and you’ll see,” he said.
The man sat down beside him on the plank115.
“I can’t see much,” he said, “the water is dazzling.”
“Ah, those are the sun’s messengers,” said the boy; “the sun sends messengers millions and millions of miles to the lake and they telegraph back to him. But you must look in another place.”
The man slipped into the humour of the child.
“Now I see your kingdom,” he said; “it has greenish forests waving, strange transparent creatures move silently about.”
“No, that’s not my kingdom,” the child answered, “why, I can get in there; but it is not like what you think. Those are slippery fishes and the bottom is all slimy. You must fix your eyes tight and not let them slip to see my kingdom.”
“Now I see it,” said the other; “it has beautiful blue sky, trees stretch twigs116 into it which glisten118 like gold—one spreads leaves like jewelled glass with the sun shining through; one stretches budding twigs made of ruby119; it is far, far below the shine and the fishes; and yet when I look it is quite close to us.”
“Yes, that’s my kingdom!” cried the child.
“But isn’t it just like that behind us?” said the man, to test him.
The boy looked round. “No, that’s out-of-doors,” he said. “My kingdom is much more happy and safe, and the sky is more shining and the leaves glitter.”
“But it’s the sun’s kingdom down there even where the shine is,” said the man.
“Yes, I know it’s his,” said the boy; “if he didn’t send messengers down there it would be all inky black and dreadful; but they won’t let his messengers get through, only a few of them, a little yellowish, greenish light.”
“Is out-of-doors his kingdom too?” then said the man.
“Of course it’s his,” said the child; “if he wasn’t there it would be dark, and the wind would sob120 and the trees shake their branches.”
“And what about your kingdom?”
“Oh, he makes that for me,” said the child, “to be all my own.”
The man sat a moment looking at the water and was silent; a starling chattered on the boughs121 above; far away came the cry of the cuckoo; at the right hand of them there was a little rustle122 as a snake slipped over dead leaves and through the new living shoots of spring, and paused.
The man turned to the child.
“But is it real?” he said.
“It’s just as real as the sun and the water and out-of-doors,” said the boy steadily123.
“But you said some day you would get in,” answered the man, tempting124 him.
The boy turned and looked at him, and his eyes were like a great stream with the sun shining through. “And that’s just as real as me,” he said.
The man snapped the twig117 he held in his hand, the snake silently slipped through the brake and was gone, and the man stood up, yet paused a moment looking down at the shining world, then he got up.
“Goodbye,” he said, “I must go and look for my kingdom. I had one once but I lost it.”
“Shall you be able to get in?” asked the boy.
“Not just yet, perhaps,” he said, “but I can look at it till I find the way in.”
So he went back through the wood, remembering that it was written, “Out of the mouth of babes thou hast perfected praise.”
The End
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1
parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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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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3
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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8
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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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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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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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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nauseates
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| v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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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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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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30
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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31
stifles
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的第三人称单数 )； 镇压，遏制 | |
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32
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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33
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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34
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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35
rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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37
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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38
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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39
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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40
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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41
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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42
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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43
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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44
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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45
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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46
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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47
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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48
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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49
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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50
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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51
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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52
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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53
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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54
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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55
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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56
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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57
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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58
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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59
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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60
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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61
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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62
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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63
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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64
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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65
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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66
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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67
loathsomeness
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68
encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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69
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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70
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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71
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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72
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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73
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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74
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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75
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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76
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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77
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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78
strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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79
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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80
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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81
preening
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的现在分词 ) | |
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82
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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83
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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85
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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86
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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87
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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88
anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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89
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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90
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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92
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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93
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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94
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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95
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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96
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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97
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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98
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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99
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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100
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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101
symbolizes
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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103
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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104
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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105
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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106
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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107
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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108
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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109
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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110
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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111
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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112
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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113
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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114
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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115
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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116
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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117
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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118
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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119
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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120
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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121
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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122
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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123
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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124
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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