AI声音克隆。模仿Jony Ive的声音读名作不要温柔地走进那良夜DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Happy birthday With best wishes for a happy birthday. Each birthday is a milestone we touch along life's way. May every special happiness fill this day for you and may the year bring everything you look forward to. Happy birthday, on this year special day, may gladness fill your every hour with joy to light your way. May your memories today be warm ones. May your dreams today be dear. May your joy last through the year. Have a wonderful birthday! May your life be brighter as each birthday comes and goes, with new happiness unfolding like the petal of a rose. have a wonderful birthday! The golden key to happiness, to health and fortune, too. This greeting symbolizes ($^E) all three of these for you. Sunny, bright, delightful, warm and wonderful, too--- That's the kind of birthday this wish is wishing you! Whatever dream you're dreaming, may each one of them come true; whatever plans you're making may they all work out for you. Happy birthday! Love is always my fight to you. Happy birthday! Roses, sweet and fragrant, sent to you to say, may each hour be a happy one on this special day. Have a happy birthday! To love is nothing. To be loved is something. to love, and be loved, is everything. May you have many, many happy birthday and always keep loveliness and charm. Wish you all happiness, health and prosperity with many many returns of the day. Please accept my gift for your birthday, not for its own value, but for the sake of the thoughts it represents. A man is not old as long as he is seeking something.

Maybe god wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right one so that when we finally meet the right person we will know how To Be grateful for that gift。 00:13 When the door of happiness closes and others opens but often times we look so long at the closed door that we dont see the one which has been opened a fuss。 00:27 The best kind of friend is a kind you can sit on a porch with never say a what and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you have ever had。 00:40 Its true that we dont know what we VE got until we lose it。 00:47 But its also true that we dont know what will be missing until it arrives。 00:54 Giving someone all your love is never an assurance that if you love your back dont expect love in return just wait foods grow in their heart。 01:06 If it doesnt be contained that it grows in rules。 01:14 It takes only a minute To Get crush on someone an hour to like someone and a day to love someone。 01:23 But it takes a lifetime to forget someone。 01:28 Dont go for looks they can deceive。 01:32 Dont go for wealth even that fade away。 01:36 Go for someone who makes you smile because it takes only a smile to make a dark day SIM bright。 01:46 Find one and makes your heart smile。

安吉拉 - 翻译：比目bimu 由于麻痹症的困扰，我成了一个卧榻多年的苦命儿。在过去的6年里，我终日呆在维尼斯运河边上的一座小屋里。照顾我饮食起居的是个耳聋的老妇，此外身边再无别人。在这些日子里我通过画鲜花水果的水彩（鲜花水果是维尼斯最廉价的模特了），每年会有大概30英镑的微薄收入。我把画寄给身在伦敦的朋友，他会把它们卖给那里的贩子，帮我换些小钱。尽管世事艰难，我大多时候还是感到快乐和满足的。 我有必要详细描述一下我房间的位置。高出运河水面约5英尺是房间的一扇独窗，再往上房间开始往外伸出6许英尺，悬在水面上，由立在河床里的敦实柱子支撑。这种房间布局给我带来了不便，当我由窗户向上看时，只能看到对面房子10英尺以下的高度，即使我颤颤巍巍伸出头，也只能看到运河上下有限的距离，都超不过15英尺宽的范围。虽然只能看到对面房子不多的墙体，借着运河的倒影，我倒可以瞥见一番颠倒的映象，对面的住户时常在阳台和窗户边隐现，引起了我很多的兴趣。 六年前我开始委身于这所房间的时候，我的注意力便被一个小女孩的倒影吸引了，我想她有13岁的年纪，每天在阳台前经过，刚好在我房间有限的视野之外。阳台旁边有张小桌子，上面摆着一瓶花、一个十字架，天气好的时候她会坐在那里，从清晨到黄昏都不停歇，辛勤地做着手中的针线活，那应该是她谋生的活计。她绝对是一个勤勉刻苦的小姑娘，从倒影中能够看得出，她穿着整洁而且长像标致。她有一个老妈妈，是个丧失劳动能力的老人。天气暖和的时候，老妈妈会陪她坐在阳台。少女会给老妇人围上披巾，垫上枕头靠垫，还有歇脚的凳子；她还时不时放下手头的工作，亲吻爱抚老妇片刻，然后继续工作。这样的景象总是能够吸引住我的眼睛。 日子一天天过去，小姑娘一天天长大，她的影子也渐渐向下伸长，到后来她已经长成了一个十六七岁的小女人。我只能在每日阳光最充足的几个小时里工作，这给了我充足的时间去观察她的动作，凭着恣意的想象去编纂一些与她有关的罗曼史。我赋予她一种美丽，并且认为，那美丽由我独享。我似乎看到，她开始对我的影子产生兴趣，就像我看她的影子那样。甚至有一天，我认为她直直地盯住我的影子-因为她的影子似乎在直直地看着我-我用最大的努力向她点头，她的影子也点头回应，这让我万分欣喜。这样以来，我们的影子算是彼此相识了。 不久我便爱上了她。但是很长时间里，除了每日点头示意，我没能下定决心做更多的事情。每日清晨，老妇把我从床上挪到窗前的沙发，我向女孩点头致敬；到了晚上，少女结束工作离开阳台，我再次向她点头。然后有一天，我觉察到她的影子正在看我，我点头，向河里抛出一朵花。她用力点了几下头回应，并且指引她的妈妈去看。从那以后我每天清晨往河里掷一朵花代替我说“早上好”，晚上掷出另一朵表示“晚上好”。不久我就发现自己掷出花并非徒劳，因为有一天她同样掷花参与进来，当两朵花聚在一起飘走，她便欢笑着拍手。从那以后，每个清晨和傍晚，我扔出我的花，她也扔出她的。两朵花相遇时她拍手，我也跟着拍手。有时候一朵花遇到了障碍物没能赶上另一朵，被分散了，她便摊开双手佯装一种失望的样子，我模仿过她的样子，却只能失败地摆出一种英国式的作派。另有一些少有的状况，也就是当一只过路的划船粗暴地将它们分开的时候，她会假装在哭，我也这样做。之后，像哑剧演出一样，她的影子向下指指天，告诉我是命运的指使要我们的花儿遭受海难。我用拙劣的肢体语言向她表达，上天下次会对它们好一点、或许明天我们的花儿会更幸运一些。就像这样，这种天真无瑕的示爱每天都上演。还有那么 一天，她向我展示并亲吻了她的十字架，我拿起一块始终在我身边的银色袖珍十字架，同样亲吻了一下，她也就知道了我们皈依同样的信仰。 有一天少女没有出现在阳台，在之后的几天里我也没有看见过她。虽然我坚持每天向河里扔花，却没有别的花加入进来。终于在一段时间之后，她重又出现，一袭黑衣，时常啜泣。之后我了解到她是失去了母亲，我想她在这个世上应该孤身一人了。许多天里她的花不再出现，那过去的旧习似乎是她不再相识的情景了，她的眼睛只在自己的工作上停留，除此之外能够得到她的眼睛眷顾的，也只有拭泪的手巾。她的对面是原来老妇人的椅子，看得出，她时常停了手里的工作，凝视着那把椅子，然后泪水会像涌泉一样宣泄而出。最终有一天她重又向我点头，她的花儿也随后飘来。日复一日，我扔出花去迎接，无论汇流与否，两朵花又像往常一样飘向远方了。 我最阴暗的日子的来临，是当一个长相不错的年轻船夫（我能够看到本尊），站在船头，驾着小舟沿着对岸的房屋，去跟坐在阳台的她交谈。他们说起话来像是旧相识，确实是这样，我甚至能够看到在整个谈话中男人一直握着她的手，这景象持续了足足半个钟头。终于男人推船离开，唯留我内心沉重不堪。当男人消失于视野，少女立刻投来一株长在一根茎上的两朵花。这又能象征什么呢，我突然意识到她是在向我表达他们是兄妹、我并不需要悲伤，我的心立刻觉得宽慰了。我欢快地向她点头，她也点头，开心地笑着。我也笑着，一切都跟以前一样了。 之后我迎来了一段阴郁和乏味的时期。我不得不接受治疗，这使我很多天里只能呆在床上。我变得很焦虑，我跟女孩或许再也不能相见，这种想法让我感到烦躁不安。更糟糕的是，她会以为我一声不吭就搬离这里了呢。晚上我睁眼躺在床上，幻想自己可以通过怎样的方式让她了解到事情的真相，几十条方案在我脑海里翻腾。早起重去想时，又发觉这些计划多么荒诞不切实际。直到有一天，我的世界又重现光明，照顾我的老妇跟我讲，一个船夫打听了我的消息，问那个英国绅士是搬走了还是已经去世。我明白，女孩一直担心我，派她的哥哥来询问我的消息，至于为什么我迟迟不能在窗前现身，我确信她的哥哥已经告诉了她原因。 从那天开始，甚至在我卧床不起的三周之后，每日清晨我总能在窗户边缘发现一朵花，一个人站在船上，可以轻而易举地够到那里。当我的身体可以再次移动的时候，我回到窗前的沙发。少女看见了我，她的倒影站了起来，我看见她上下颠倒的手在那里拍着，那种漫溢的欣喜对我来讲像是经历着世间最值得欢乐的事情。船夫经过我的窗前时，我立刻招呼他过来。他把船撑过来，脸上堆满灿烂的笑，告诉我他的欢乐，又可以看到我好好的了。我向他表示感谢，在我接受治疗的这么多天，他和他的妹妹为我费了太多的心思。从船夫的口里我得知少女名叫安吉拉，全威尼斯最善良的最纯洁的未婚少女。如果有人能够称他作妹妹，那人就会觉得十分地幸福了。但是他会比做哥哥的更加的幸福，因为他就要把她娶回家，他们的婚礼就在明天。 听到这些，我的心涨得难受，像是随时可能炸裂开来，血液在血管里冲突，砰砰的声音掩盖了周围的一切声响。我最终得以断续地说出一些恭贺之词，并且应允他明天从教堂回来后，带上他的新娘过来拜访。随后他欢唱着离开了我。 “因为”，船夫说，“我的安吉拉认识你很久-从她还是个孩子，她常常向我提起你，一个可怜的英国绅士，一个和蔼的天主信徒，日复一日年复一年地坐在窗前。她不止一次告诉我，她多么希望自己能够和他谈心宽慰他。然后有一天，你在河里扔了一朵花，她便问我能不能也扔下一朵，我告诉她可以，因为那人会理解到，这表示对别人苦难遭遇的同情。” 我恍然若失，想来那是一种叫做同情的东西，而非爱。即便可以称之为爱，也是一种怜悯的爱。这样的感情促使她去关心我的福祉，仅此而已。 至于那株我认为同茎的两朵花，却是缚在一起的两朵花（我当时未能分辨），它们象征着女孩和船夫是订婚的恋人。我看到这个标志后愉快的样子，也让女孩感到快乐，她想我该是为她的幸福感到高兴。 第二天船夫撑船过来了，身后跟着一队的船夫，全都穿着他们的节日服装。他的小舟上坐了安吉拉，欢笑着，幸福涨红了她的脸。他们两个走进我居住的房间（眼前的画面给我一种奇异的感觉，在习惯了多年倒立的影像，现在却看到她端端正正地站在我的面前！），她祝愿我幸福希望我早日康复（我想我不会了）；我眼里饱含泪水，用支离破碎的言语，将那个一直在我床边桌前陪伴我的银色袖珍十字架送给了她。安吉拉恭敬地把它攥在手里，胸口画十，亲吻了它，转身和她那欢乐的丈夫离开了。 船夫们在水上欢唱着离开，我听着他们的声音渐行渐远。太阳西斜，夜幕渐渐将我笼罩。那歌声对我来说却是一首安魂曲，埋葬了我那刻在心里的唯一恋人。

Angela by William Schwenk Gilbert I am a poor paralysed fellow who, for many years past, has been confined to a bed or a sofa. For the last six years I have occupied a small room, giving on to one of the side canals of Venice, and having no one about me but a deaf old woman, who makes my bed and attends to my food; and there I eke out a poor income of about thirty pounds a year by making water-colour drawings of flowers and fruit (they are the cheapest models in Venice), and these I send to a friend in London,who sells them to a dealer for small sums. But, on the whole, I am happy and content. It is necessary that I should describe the position of my room rather minutely. Its only window is about five feet above the water of the canal, and above it the house projects some six feet, and overhangs the water, the projecting portion being supported by stout piles driven into the bed of the canal. This arrangement has the disadvantage (among others) of so limiting my upward view that I am unable to see more than about ten feet of the height of the house immediately opposite to me, although, by reaching as far out of the window as my infirmity will permit, I can see for a considerable distance up and down the canal, which does not exceed fifteen feet in width. But, although I can see but little of the material house opposite, I can see its reflection upside down in the canal, and I take a good deal of inverted interest in such of its inhabitants as show themselves from time to time (always upside down) on its balconies and at its windows. When I first occupied my room, about six years ago, my attention was directed to the reflection of a little girl of thirteen or so (as nearly as I could judge), who passed every day on a balcony just above the upward range of my limited field of view. She had a glass of flowers and a crucifix on a little table by her side; and as she sat there, in fine weather, from early morning until dark, working assiduously all the time, I concluded that she earned her living by needle-work. She was certainly an industrious little girl, and, as far as I could judge by her upside-down reflection, neat in her dress and pretty. She had an old mother, an invalid, who, on warm days, would sit on the balcony with her, and it interested me to see the little maid wrap the old lady in shawls, and bring pillows for her chair, and a stool for her feet, and every now and again lay down her work and kiss and fondle the old lady for half a minute, and then take up her work again. Time went by, and as the little maid grew up, her reflection grew down, and at last she was quite a little woman of, I suppose, sixteen or seventeen. I can only work for a couple of hours or so in the brightest part of the day, so I had plenty of time on my hands in which to watch her movements, and sufficient imagination to weave a little romance about her, and to endow her with a beauty which, to a great extent, I had to take for granted. I saw--or fancied that I could see--that she began to take an interest in my reflection (which, of course, she could see as I could see hers); and one day, when it appeared to me that she was looking right at it--that is to say when her reflection appeared to be looking right at me--I tried the desperate experiment of nodding to her, and to my intense delight her reflection nodded in reply. And so our two reflections became known to one another. It did not take me very long to fall in love with her, but a long time passed before I could make up my mind to do more than nod to her every morning, when the old woman moved me from my bed to the sofa at the window, and again in the evening, when the little maid left the balcony for that day. One day, however, when I saw her reflection looking at mine, I nodded to her, and threw a flower into the canal. She nodded several times in return, and I saw her direct her mother's attention to the incident. Then every morning I threw a flower into the water for 'good morning', and another in the evening for 'goodnight', and I soon discovered that I had not altogether thrown them in vain, for one day she threw a flower to join mine, and she laughed and clapped her hands when she saw the two flowers join forces and float away together. And then every morning and every evening she threw her flower when I threw mine, and when the two flowers met she clapped her hands, and so did I; but when they were separated, as they sometimes were, owing to one of them having met an obstruction which did not catch the other, she threw up her hands in a pretty affectation of despair, which I tried to imitate but in an English and unsuccessful fashion. And when they were rudely run down by a passing gondola (which happened not unfrequently) she pretended to cry, and I did the same.

Darius and the Clouds You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky. Butterflies too are few and so are flowers and most things that are beautiful. Still, we take what we can get and make the best of it. Darius, who doesn"t like school, who is sometimes stupid and mostly a fool, said something wise today, though most days he says nothing. Darius, who chases girls with firecrackers or a stick that touched a rat and thinks he"s tough, today pointed up because the world was full of clouds, the kind like pillows. You all see that cloud, that fat one there? Darius said, See that? Where? That one next to the one that look like popcorn. That one there. See that. That"s God, Darius said.God? somebody little asked. God, he said, and made it simple.

Hairs Everybody in our family has different hair. My Papa's hair is like a broom, all up in the air. And me, my hair is lazy. It never obeys barrettes or bands. Carlos' hair is thick and straight. He doesn't need to comb it. Nenny's hair is slippery—slides out of your hand. And Kiki, who is the youngest, has hair like fur. But my mother's hair, my mother's hair, like little rosettes, like little candy circles all curly and pretty because she pinned it in pin curls all day, sweet to put your nose into when she is holding you, holding you and you feel safe, is the warm smell of bread before you bake it, is the smell when she makes room for you on her side of the bed still warm with her skin, and you sleep near her, the rain outside falling and Papa snoring. The snoring, the rain, and Mama's hair that smells like bread.

Letters by Keats My dearest lady, I am now at a very pleasan cottage window looking onto a beautiful hilly country with a view of the sea the morning is very fine I don't know how elastic my spirit might be what pleasure I might have in living here if the remenbrance of you did not weigh so upon me Ask yourself, my love, whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me so destoryed my freedom for myself, I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form I want a brighter word than bright, a faireer word than fair I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days Three such days with you I could fill with more delight than 50 common years could ever contain when you can confess this in a letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it make it rich as a draft of poppies to intoxicate me write the softest words and kiss them That I may at least touch my lips where yours have been

what I love about you The sparkle in your eye, The warmth of your skin, Your breath on my neck That shakes me within. The touch of your hand, The smell of your hair, The naughtiness in your smile, That strength in your stare. Your kiss on my lips, Your body near mine, The stroke of your touch, Makes everything feel fine. The compassion in your touch, The power in your face, The beating of your heart, That we may never end our embrace. The beauty of your kiss, And that magic in your touch. It is for all these reasons and more Why I love you so much...

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You - Poem by Pablo Neruda I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, From waiting to not waiting for you, My heart moves from cold to fire. I love you only because it's you, the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly. Maybe January light will consume My heart with its cruel Ray, stealing my key to true calm. In this part of the story, I am the one who Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.