第17部分 (第1/7页)

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h　as　though　new　minted　from　the　brain　of　the　poet。　Being　perfect；　they　can　never　droop　under　that　satiety　which　arises　from　the　perception　of　fault；　their　virtue　can　never　be　so　entirely　savoured　as　to　leave　no　pungency　of　gusto　for　the　next　approach。

Among　the　many　reasons　which　make　me　glad　to　have　been　born　in　England；　one　of　the　first　is　that　I　read　Shakespeare　in　my　mother　tongue。　If　I　try　to　imagine　myself　as　one　who　cannot　know　him　face　to　face；　who　hears　him　only　speaking　from　afar；　and　that　in　accents　which　only　through　the　labouring　intelligence　can　touch　the　living　soul；　there　es　upon　me　a　sense　of　chill　discouragement；　of　dreary　deprivation。　I　am　wont　to　think　that　I　can　read　Homer；　and；　assuredly；　if　any　man　enjoys　him；　it　is　I；　but　can　I　for　a　moment　dream　that　Homer　yields　me　all　his　music；　that　his　word　is　to　me　as　to　him　who　walked　by　the　Hellenic　shore　when　Hellas　lived？　I　know　that　there　reaches　me　across　the　vast　of　time　no　more　than　a　faint　and　broken　echo；　I　know　that　it　would　be　fainter　still；　but　for　its　blending　with　those　memories　of　youth　which　are　as　a　glimmer　of　the　world's　primeval　glory。　Let　every　land　have　joy　of　its　poet；　for　the　poet　is　the　land　itself；　all　its　greatness　and　its　sweetness；　all　that　inmunicable　heritage　for　which　men　live　and　die。　As　I　close　the　book；　love　and　reverence　possess　me。　Whether　does　my　full　heart　turn　to　the　great　Enchanter；　or　to　the　Island　upon　which　he　has　laid　his　spell？　I　know　not。　I　cannot　think　of　them　apart。　In　the　love　and　reverence　awakened　by　that　voice　of　voices；　Shakespeare　and　England　are　but　one。

AUTUMN

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This　has　been　a　year　of　long　sunshine。　Month　has　followed　upon　month　with　little　unkindness　of　the　sky；　I　scarcely　marked　when　July　passed　into　August；　August　i

《四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)》 第17部分（第1/7页），本章未完，点击下一页继续阅读。