朱自清《2113匆匆》是大家都非常熟5261悉的散文，我们来看看4102它的英文版。1653
Swallows
may
have
gone,
but there
is
a
time
of
return;
willow
trees
may
have
died
back,
but
there
is
a
time
of
regreening;
peach
blossoms
may
have
fallen,
but
they
will
bloom
again.
Now,
you
the
wise,
tell
me,
why
should
our
days
leave
us,
never
to
return?
-
If
they
had
been
stolen
by
someone,
who
could
it
be?
Where
could
he
hide
them?
If
they
had
made
the
escape
themselves,
then
where
could
they
stay
at
the
moment?
I
don't
know
how
many
days
I
have
been
given
to
spend,
but
I
do
feel
my
hands
are
getting
empty.
Taking
stock
silently,
I
find
that
more
than
eight
thousand
days
have
already
slid
away
from
me.
Like
a
drop
of
water
from the point
of
a
needle
disappearing
into
the
ocean,
my
days
are
dripping
into
the
stream
of
time,
soundless,
traceless.
Already
sweat
is
starting
on
my
forehead,
and
tears
welling
up
in
my
eyes.
Those
that
have
gone
have
gone
for
good,
those
to
come
keep
coming;
yet
in
between,
how
swift
is the shift,
in
such
a
rush?
When
I
get
up
in
the
morning,
the
slanting
sun
marks
its
presence
in
my
small
room
in
two
or
three
oblongs.
The
sun
has
feet,
look,
he
is
treading
on,
lightly
and
furtively;
and
I
am
caught,
blankly,
in
his
revolution.
Thus--the
day
flows
away
through
the
sink
when
I
wash
my
hands,
wears
off
in
the
bowl
when
I
eat
my
meal,
and
passes
away
before
my
day-dreaming
gaze
as
reflect
in
silence.
I
can
feel
his
haste
now,
so
I
reach
out
my
hands
to
hold
him
back,
but
he
keeps
flowing
past
my
withholding
hands.
In
the
evening,
as
I
lie
in
bed,
he
strides
over
my
body,
glides
past
my
feet,
in
his
agile
way.
The
moment
I
open
my
eyes
and
meet
the
sun
again,
one
whole
day
has
gone.
I
bury
my
face
in
my
hands
and
heave
a
sigh.
But
the
new
day
begins
to past
in
the
sigh.
What
can
I
do,
in
this
bustling
world,
with
my
days
flying
in their
escape?
Nothing
but
to
hesitate,
to
rush.
What
have
I
been
doing
in
that
eight-thousand-day
rush,
apart
from
hesitating?
Those
bygone
days
have
been
dispersed
as
smoke
by
a
light
wind,
or
evaporated
as
mist
by
the
morning
sun.
What
traces
have
I
left
behind
me?
Have
I
ever
left
behind
any
gossamer
traces
at
all?
I
have
come
to
the
world,
stark
naked;
am
I
to
go
back,
in
a
blink,
in
the
same
stark
nakedness?
It
is
not
fair
though:
why
should
I
have
made
such
a
trip
for
nothing!
You the wise,
tell
me,
why
should
our
days
leave
us,
never
to
return？