2011大学排行 浙大力压北大清华夺冠

一派胡言乱语👎️

《机缘之间》（《Between the Chances》） Written by David Griswold Translation by Li Cai, Yili Dong, Steven Gu, Di Wu, Jingxin Zhang, Taisu Zhang 大门缓缓敞开， 时光悠悠流逝 学子彼此的笑语欢声 即成往事 遥想当年，这个舞台何其遥远 回首间，谁不奢望 时空倒转，昨日再现？ 如蜂群般熙攘，我们逐渐成行 像感恩的圣徒 静候圣光 穿过沧桑的长廊，我们起步 轻轻握手 踏上人生的征途 细品过的书香，淡淡地弥散床头 庇护我们的天使 将延续她们的守候 父母的欣慰，掩饰着那丝丝的感伤： 他们可以休息了 让孩子独挡一方 古老的高塔，钟鼓沉音 藏书室辉煌灯火 助我博览古今 历史的积淀悄然演奏 只有敞开心扉，才能聆听 那辩证的低语，真情的魔咒 借来这样的火焰 照不亮心中的沉迷 燃不尽思维的溟茫 单纯的思考，若没有外化 — 创造的艺术，艺术的创造 就难以迸出火花 我们就是自己的书 书脊几乎崭新 墨迹尚未模糊 先贤的知识刚刚传承到手 折射着智慧的光芒 映入遥遥苍穹 毕业的我们， 要将心中的天地呈现 以希望作盾，以正义为剑 去庇护，那纷乱战火中的疲惫众生 去阻止，那无常的硝烟 再次肆虐人间 坚强是我们的义务 引导那些诱人、却错误的想法 走出歧途 昭显我们的真知 时刻牢记自己的立场 一日三省吾身 我们的责任，去唤醒这些疲惫的心 他们低吟着父辈们的遗憾 从古至今： 绝望的田野丰沃而无助 工薪的冶炼 苦闷而残酷 别让那些贪婪的引诱 虚荣的奢望 贻误你的追求 铭记最深厚的感动 在争执时宽容 慷慨、谦恭 而永远，永远要用真心去爱 没有人能将系紧的结 轻易解开 仲夏之夜无法重温 沉沉的时间之锁 会将历史尘封 那么，你是否满意你的丰收？ 汲自敬仰的教授 课程和学友 孵获的种子在心中，深深萌动 要送回大地，要发芽、生长 撑起天空 是否后悔当初的沉默？ 若是没有羁绊 你会否重新来过？ 找回那曾经丢失的机遇 珍视那被忽略的自由， 去回味 曾经愤懑的心绪 更不要人云亦云 让他人的主张 左右自己的言行 去追随那远方的鼓声 所颂扬的光明与真理 更丰厚的人生 时钟的齿轮飞转、轰鸣 街畔的人群侧头 注目， 倾听 教室的门窗对我们已不再开放 令我们此刻的双手 安适，却又彷徨 熟知的暗道今已敞开 迎接任何好奇的路人 顾盼、徘徊 每一墙角，每一转弯 记录着我们无声的印痕 永恒的遗产 我们的故事默默铭记 那共享的情谊，心中的灵犀 我们虽然离开 — 但我们是这里的青草，这里的高塔 是悠扬、骄傲的歌声里 沉默前行的步伐 The Ivy Ode: “Between the Chances” Written by David Griswold (Yale Class 2007) The gate swings open, and minutes pass, Someone cracks a joke – the last Heard as a student. Four years ago, this stage was far. Now could we get there from where we are – Well, who wouldn’t? Bustling like bees, rallied into ranks, Arranged like sinners giving thanks, The time arrives, And down the well-worn rows we march To shake the hands, and disembark Into our real lives. The books we perused are snug in bed, What angels watched us overhead Extend their contracts, While parents bend a wave of grief Beneath a feeling of relief – They can relax. As we, in gothic, graying towers, Gilded libraries, where we spent hours Rehearsing facts, Have borrowed knowledge of a kind The ready heart can only find When it reacts To difference, and to love’s full Enchantment. Too often, thoughts are dull Or un-ignited Without their better counterpart: The art of making, made an art Itself, unrequited Until it is given back. We are our books, barely a crack Along the seams – Their wisdom here, freshly imparted, Is thrown to depths perpetually charted Beyond the sun’s beams. It falls to us, now graduated To share the worlds we’ve contemplated, To brandish hope; To shield the war-sick, weary masses, And separate the volatile gases Before they elope. It falls to us to be the strong, To mark all those who worship wrong Yet tempting causes, To marshal out our erudition Yet always keen to our position, And our many flaws. This task we have, these hearts to mend, They are the same our fathers lend From age to age: The desperate manors, plush and futile, The forges of the bored and brutal Company wage. Let us not marry our intent To keep up the establishment Of vain pursuits. Remember what has meant the most, Give others a chance, and do not boast, Be kind in disputes. And always, always, love with true And fervent love. None may undo What has been done. A summer’s night cannot be made Again – none uncode time’s blockade. There is only one. So did you gather all you wanted? From classes, friends, professors vaunted Above the gods? The captive seeds that in us churn Now to the earth must be returned – Are there more words You wish you had distributed? Or times that, uninhibited, You would have changed? Collect them all, savor the lost Chances, the freedoms that were glossed Over, estranged Embraces – pack them up for good, And do not do what others would Tell you is best. Follow the distant drum that speaks Of light and truth, and life that seeks A surer rest. The clocks are whirring with a fury, The streets are lined with those who hurry With heads averted. The classroom doors to us now close, Our busy hands are in repose, Though disconcerted. The hidden walkways known to us Now open to those curious Enough to look. They pass along a legacy, Our prints of anonymity In every nook. The stories of our hands explain A common bond that must remain, Though we are gone – We are the grass, we are the rooms, The silent marching that resumes Its slow, proud song. （Xianhui Xie Forwarded)