µ¹ʫ
ǷҲ,֪дʫµʮĴ½,ϲ,Ȼһϣʫѡ,ҲմٿϢ,ͷν˲е,ήȴ۵顣
,ұ䵽˲İջӱ߾ũ,ѩҰĶ,Ϳɶ,տëкʱ,ѩ˹Ŀԭѩ,dzİ,ǻر,ԭҰôޱߡʱ,,ѹ,һѧһͨ,ﻹҵΡ
ȥس,źȥפء,,ӹ˿ԵĿɰ·һϿѧҲȥسǡʲ˵,ھӣҸϽ˷Ʈݡת,ۿ,һ,˵Ӵ,ͷһСʱ,ÿ쿴,ǽ·,̧ͷˡǰͼݳƬ,ɨɨͷ,,˵壡Ǹߴ,ȻҲھͶ,,粻ͬҵż,Ц̸ȥˡ
عͷ,˵Ͽ,ʮΪ֮,ͻȻҵһɣӦԤСǵ19571958һЩʫǵ,˵µȻд˲֮ͨľ:ƽұһ,ʵǻ,˵ʲѧDzɾҩơ
ʫȴħƵץס,ôҲ,˵һ,һֳֵħʲôԭ,Ū,ֻ֪йʫ,ûЧһֱʮĩ,ҿʼִ,ʫζִν,νͬʡһõƵظе˼룩,ЩĸƪӦһ,̸Щֻۡ˵,ʫ,ԶԶйʫڰʮǰˮƽµʫ,йŵʫִϵIJµһ,ԿಷݥĽѧ,¶ٵķû,б֮յйʫʮŬ,Ҳҳ,¶,ܾͻдʫ䡣
- posted on 09/14/2004
ҶԲļСʮʱײһôʫѡһΰҴʫĹȡ߾DzµӴ˰ּϣӴ˶ʫʼһѰ
м仰ʱĸܣ˰ҷУҲһʫ
So anyway, there was this young girl,
lonely and always absent-minded
in others' eyes,
spent most of her spare time wandering
about the little dark library.
One day she discovered such a book.
She stared at Keats' portrait
(he is strikingly beautiful!),
at his melancholy eyes,
as if he had spoken to her.
He spoke to her in his poetry,
full of marvel and majesty,
like a light shone upon her trivial world
from an ethereal power.
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