朱自清的散文《春》有权威的英文翻译吗？

Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of renewal; 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 it he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they be hiding now?

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 slipped away form 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 beading on my forehead, and tears are 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
Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of renewal; 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 it he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they be hiding now?

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 slipped away form 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 beading on my forehead, and tears are 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, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus- the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, rubs off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as I 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 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 flash 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.
two or three oblongs. The sun has feet-look, he is treading, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus- the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, rubs off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as I 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 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 flash 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.

Hope, hope, the east wind has come, the spring is coming.
Everything looks like it just wake up, Xinxin ran opened his eyes. The mountains become green, the water rose
The, sun blushed.
The grass drills secretly from the earth, tender, green. The garden, the fields, look,
A large full yes. Sitting, lying down, hits two to roll, kick a ball, match several runs, catch
Some seek. Wind lightly
Spring
, soft grass.
Peach, apricot, pear, you will not let me, I will not let you, are also growing flowers. Red
As a fire, as the Xia powder, white as snow. The sweet flowers; closed one's eyes, on the tree as if already full
Was the peach, the apricot, pear. Spend the next hundreds and thousands of bees buzzing, the size of the butterfly flying
Fly. Wild flowers are: various, has the name, does not have the name, scattered in the grass, like the eyes,
Like the stars, but also blink.
"Face is not blowing cold wind in the willows", good, looks like mother's hand touching you. The wind has brought some new
The earthy flavor, mixed with the smell of the grass, and the flower fragrance, slightly moist in the air
In brewing. Bird nest in the leaves and flowers, happy, their friends to show off the crisp
Throat, sing the songs, with the breeze and the water should be. Piccolo cowboy cattle back, then
Sometimes all loud ringing.
The rain is most common, is about three two days. Don't be angry. See, like, like a flower pin, like
Filaments, dense underground, people on the roof of the cage with a thin layer of smoke. But the leaves are all green,
The grass is green, too. In the evening, the light, a little light, show
Quiet and peaceful night. In the countryside, on the road, Ishihashi Nabe, is the umbrella is walking slowly people,
There are also some farmers in the fields, hat. Their houses, sparse, in the rain.
Silence.
Kite increasing in number, the more children on the ground. The city the countryside, each and every family, old and young
Small, their son, one each one all came out. Shuhuo shuhuojingu, dousou brace up, the
Doing a different thing to go. "Yinianzhiji is the spring", just from the head, some work, some are
Hope.
Spring is like the baby who just born, everything is new, it is growing.
Spring is like a little girl, her, smiled, walked.
Spring is like a vigorous youth, iron-clad arms and waist, leads us forward.