初中英语美文欣赏

初中英语美文欣赏

　　导语：悲哀和眼泪都是真的，区别只是内在和外在，无形和有形。以下小编为大家介绍初中英语美文欣赏文章，欢迎大家阅读参考!

　　山野的风

　　“妈妈，风有眼晴吗?”小时候的我曾问过妈妈。

　　“有，孩子，风会看着你长大，会给妈妈传来你的信息，不管你在哪儿，我都知道你的状况，因为风的眼睛把你的一切都告诉了我”妈妈用胼手摩挲着我的头。

　　是的，风总是喜欢站在树梢眺望，并学着母亲的样子，以手加额，大声地叫喊着我的乳名，天色晚了，叫我赶快回家。有时，与小朋友玩的正是兴起，根本没听见，或装着没听到，风就会带着母亲的声音在耳边呼呼作响，随着脚印一直追赶，直催到我回家。

　　不用猜，不管我在山坡放牛，在小河或山塘洗澡，或到菜地里去偷别家的黄瓜之类的东西，母亲总能通过风来感知，知道她的儿子在哪里。我走得再远，也都在母亲爱的磁场内。一辈子能给我这样感觉的，只有我的母亲。

　　风，总是随着季节更替变换自己的温度和味道，变换自己的颜色。严冬刚过，风就急急地赶走寒，带着春的温暖信息吹遍山岗，小草、林子不日便吐出嫩绿，慢慢地，山岗的野花，家养的梨树、桃树也盛开起来，生机盎然。这时候的风，就像一个待嫁的姑娘，穿着花红柳绿的彩服，宁静、恬淡，有着花的芳香，却醉于自己的风采。儿时的我，好像有无限的动力，总喜欢到后山里看绿摘花，任春风浸满心田，希望自己像春天里的小草一样，快快长大。母亲懂得她儿子的心思，不时地到田间摘取嫩草回家，让家里充满草的新鲜气息，浸润我幼小的心灵。

　　到了盛夏，风中的热急剧膨胀，吹在脸上烫的有点灼的感觉，漾来漾去，。带着几分神秘与骄傲，把心事写在脸上，又故作沉静，把稻谷成熟的信息带给村子里的人们，催他们赶快农忙，在收割的同时赶快插秧。在田间劳作的一天，晚上闷热的无法入睡，每人一把用麦杆编的蒲扇，指掌轻捏扇柄，狠狠地晃动。母亲睡着了，手上的扇子还在轻轻地摇动，定格在我身体上方，把凉意扇在我身上。

　　秋天，风里的热里慢慢减少，田地的作物渐渐成熟，稻子进了仓，红薯发了胀，母亲不再那么劳累和心慌。在余晖还在的时候，母亲把一盏昏黄暗淡的煤油灯摆上饭桌，一家老小围着桌子品尝，每一口饭和菜，都充满温暖和芳香。在摇曳的火舌中，母亲熟练地在锅中涮洗着碗筷，我却不敢远离母亲半步，生怕黑夜里串出一只手或没有身子的鬼，将我捉去，无法再回到母亲身边。

　　四季里的风，最本色的还数冬天，数九严寒，刺骨的北风把人吹得缩手缩脚。母亲还是早早地起床，在冷水里淘米洗衣，待太阳爬上山顶，阳光带来的暖意融化冰霜，母亲便轻唤我的乳名，躲在被窝里的我才慢慢将头探出，应着母亲，穿起母亲亲手缝织厚厚的棉袄。除了小脸被冻的通红，身上热的不比夏天差，因为棉袄是用母爱织成的，寒冷惧怕它，躲的远远的。

　　山野里的风，塞满了母亲对儿子的呵护与温暖，在某种义意上是高高扬起的一面写满母爱的旗帜!

　　我从风中的山野来到城市，背井离乡地生活了19年，总觉得城市里的风有点异样的感觉和味道，少了山野风的清新自然和纯正，而且闷的让人心慌意乱，找不到做人的准则，少了理智，却横生出趋炎附势，没有旷野的风雨扑打的自在。

　　母亲，总不愿随我到城里生活，一直想呆在村子里，虽近七旬，却还在风里雨尽心劳作，在灶屋里忙碌。而风，也在忙着将母亲要我保持山里孩子的清纯信息传递给，怕我迷失方向，在我心里树起标杆，城里的风再怎么浊也蚀不到它!

　　"Mother, does the wind have a clear eye?" I asked my mother when I was a child.

　　"There are children, the wind will see you grow up, will give you the information coming from the mother, no matter where you are, I know your situation, because the wind's eyes to everything you told me," Mom heloma hand over my head.

　　Yes, the wind in the trees at the station always love, and like a mother, that is, loudly shouting my name, it was late, told me to go home. Sometimes, playing with children is just the rise, which is not heard or heard. The wind will whistle around the ear with the mother's voice. As the footprint keeps catching up, it will rush me to go home.

　　Don't guess, whether I'm in the hillside cattle in the river or ponds or bathing, the vegetable to steal another cucumber like, mother always through the wind to know where her son perception. I walk far, in the magnetic field of my mother's love. All my life can give me such a feeling, only my mother.

　　Wind, always changing their temperature and taste with the change of the season, change their color. Just after the winter, the wind is hurried away cold, with the warmth of spring information blowing through the hills, grass and woods I will spit out the green hills, slowly, wild flowers, pear, peach blossom also domesticated, full of vitality. At this time the wind, like a gorgeous girl, wearing the color clothes, bright red blossoms and green willows, quiet and tranquil, with the fragrance of the flowers, but drunk in their own style. My childhood, seems to have unlimited power, always love to see the mountains green flowers, spring breeze soaked heart, like spring grass, grow up quickly. The mother knew her son's mind, from time to time to pick the grass field to go home, let the house is full of grass fresh breath, infiltration of my young heart.

　　In the summer, the heat in the wind was inflated rapidly, and a burning sensation on the face, rippling and rippling. With a bit of mystery and pride, the mind in the face, and pretending to be calm, the people of rice mature information to the village, they quickly rush in the harvest at the same time to harvest, planting. In the field work day and night hot can not sleep, a person with straw series fan, palm Qingnie fan handle, violently shaking. The mother was asleep, the fan in his hand was still shaking gently, fixed on my body, and fanning the coolness on me.

　　The autumn wind heat slowly reduced, crop fields gradually mature, the rice into the warehouse, the sweet potato bulging, less tired mother and flustered. When light still, mother took a dim dim kerosene lamp on the table, the whole family, old and young around the table every mouthful taste, rice and vegetables are full of warm and fragrant. In the flickering flames, mother skillfully in the pot washing the dishes, I dare not half a step away from the mother, for fear of the night on a hand or body of the ghost, I will catch, can not go back to the mother.

　　The seasons in the wind, the most natural number is also the winter, winter cold, biting north wind to blow too timid. The mother got up early rice in cold water washing, the sun climbed to the top of the mountain, the sun brings warmth melts the ice, the mother will call my name, hiding in bed I slowly will head out, should be a mother, mother wore hand sewn fabric thick cotton padded jacket. In addition to face frozen red, body heat is not worse than in summer, because the jacket is woven with motherly love, cold fear it, hide away.

　　The wind in the mountain is filled with the mother's care and warmth to his son. In some sense, it is a high flag of mother's love.

　　I came to the city from the wind in the mountains, to leave the hometown 19 years of living in the city, always feel the wind a little strange feeling and taste, less fresh and natural and pure mountain wind, and stuffy and unnerving, can not find the criteria for life, less rational, but not out begging. The rain beat free wilderness.

　　Mother always unwilling to live in the city with me, always wanted to stay in the village, although nearly seventy years, still in the wind with rain in the kitchen busy work room. And the wind is also busy to keep my mother from me to keep the innocent information of the children in the mountain. I am afraid that I will lose my way and set up a benchmark in my heart.

　　初中英语美文欣赏2

　　雨前

　　最后的鸽群带着低弱的笛声在微风里划一个圈子后，也消失了。也许是误认这灰暗的凄冷的天空为夜色的来袭，或是也预感到风雨的将至，遂过早地飞回到它们温暖的木舍。

　　几天的阳光在柳条上撒下的一抹嫩绿，被尘土埋掩得有憔悴色了，是需要一次洗涤。还有干裂的大地和树根也早已期待着雨。雨却迟疑着。

　　我怀想故乡的雷声和雨声。那隆隆的有力的搏击，从山谷返响到山谷，仿佛春之芽就从冻土里震动、惊醒，而怒茁出来。细草样柔的雨声又以温存之手抚摩它，使它簇生油绿的枝叶而开出红色的花。这些怀想如乡愁一样萦绕得我忧郁了。我心里的气候也和这北方大陆一样缺少雨量，一滴温柔的泪在我枯涩的眼里，如迟疑在这阴沉的天空里的雨点，久不落下。

　　白色的鸭也似有一点烦燥了，有不洁的颜色的都市的河沟里传出它们的焦急的叫声。有的还未厌倦那船一样的徐徐地划行。有的却倒插它们的长颈在水里，红色的蹼趾伸在尾后，不停地扑击着水以支持身体的平衡。不知是在寻找沟底的细微食物，还是贪那深深的水里的寒冷。

　　有几个已上岸了。在柳树下来回地作绅士的散步，舒息划行的疾劳。然后参差地站着，用嘴细细地抚理它们遍体白色的羽毛，间或又摇动身子或扑展着阔翅，使那缀在羽手间的大珠坠落。一个已修饰完毕的，弯曲它的颈到背上，长长的红嘴藏没在翅膀里，静静合上它白色的茸毛间的小黑眼，仿佛准备睡眠。可怜的小动物，你就是这样做你的梦吗?

　　我想起故乡放雏鸭的人了。一大群鹅黄色的'雏鸭游牧在溪流间。清浅的水，两岸青青的草，一根长长的竹竿在牧人的手里。他的小队伍是多么欢欣地发出啾啁声，又多么驯服地随着他的竿头越过一个田野又一个山坡!夜来了，帐幕似的竹篷撑在地上，就是他的家。但这是怎样辽远的想象啊!在这多尘土的国度里，我仅希望听见一点树叶上的雨声。一点雨声的幽凉滴到我的憔悴的梦里，也许会长成一树圆圆的绿阴来覆荫我自己。

　　我仰起头。天空低垂如灰色的雾幕，落下一些寒冷的碎屑到我脸上。一只远来的鹰隼仿佛带着怒愤，对这沉重的天色的怒愤，平张的双翅不动地从天空斜插下，几乎触到河沟对岸的土阜，而又鼓扑着双翅，作出猛烈的声响腾上了。那样巨大的翅使我惊异。我看见了它两肋间斑白的羽毛。

　　接着听见了它有力的鸣声，如同一个巨大的心的呼号，或是在黑暗里寻找伴侣的叫唤。

　　然而雨还是没有来。

　　The pigeons with faint finally etched a circle in the light breeze, have disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the gloomy sky and cold for the onset of night, or have a hunch that rain is approaching, so they fly back to their warm cabin.

　　A few days of sunshine on the willow, a touch of green, buried in the dust is haggard, it is a need for a washing. And the dry ground and the roots of the tree have long been looking for rain. The rain was hesitating.

　　I think of thunder and rain in my hometown. Those mighty crashes rumbled, from the valley echo Valley, as if spring shoots were shaking in the frozen ground, woke up, and anger out zhuo. Fine grass like soft rain with gentle hands stroked it, so that clumps of green leaves and pink flowers. This feeling of nostalgia about my melancholy. My heart is the North China climate and lack of rainfall, a tear in my dull eyes, such as lingering in the murky sky of the rain, for a long time not to fall.

　　The white ducks looked a bit tired, their anxious cries from the dirty city rivers. Paddling slowly some were not weary of the ship. Others were putting their necks in the water, red webbed toe extension in the tail, constantly beat against the water to support the balance of the body. I do not know to look for the fine food at the bottom of the ditch, or to greedy the cold in the deep water.

　　A few have landed. Walk in the willow swaggered back, the man Lao Shu interest. Then stood unevenly, with the mouth carefully ask them full of white feathers, and occasionally shake or spread their broad wings that compose in hand between the falling feather. One that had already finished, bending its neck on the back, long billed hiding in the wings, quietly closed its white fuzz small black eyes, as if it were going to sleep. Poor little animal, are you doing your dream?

　　I think the hometown people put ducklings. A large group of goose yellow ducklings in the streams. Limpid water, lush green grass on the banks, with a long bamboo pole in his hand. His team is glad to look after a sound, and how meekly with his rod head over a field and a hillside! Night, tent like bamboo shed on the ground, is his home. But this is what a distant imagination! In this country of dust, I only want to hear the sound of raindrops on leaves. A little raindrop dripping into my haggard dream, may grow into a round green shade to cover myself.

　　I raised my head. The sky was drooping like a grey fog curtain, and some cold crumbs fell on my face. A long distance to the hawk as if with anger, against the heavy weather anger, flat piece of wings do not move from the sky Xiecha, almost touched the hillock on the other side of the brook, and beat its wings and make violently. That great wing amazes me. I saw it two grizzled feathers.

　　Then he heard its powerful voice, like a great heart call, or the call of a companion in the dark.

　　But the rain did not come.

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