英语课前演讲3分钟

英语课前演讲 3 分钟 Winter was gone, spring comes. I love spring best, because it's very beautiful. In spring, the weather is always sunny and rainy, it’s not cold and not hot, it’s warmer and warmer. The flowers begin to open and the trees begin to turn green. There are many butterflies and bees over the flowers. The butterflies are dancing and the bees are singing. The birds are singing in the sky, they are happy. The animals will go out to play. Many people like to go out and enjoy the sunshine. I like wearing my sweater and jeans, I like to fly kites, plant trees and see the beautiful flowers. Spring is colorful, I think it's a wonderful season.英语课前演讲 3 分钟 2 There are four seasons in a year. Which do you think is the best? Do you want to know what I think? I think spring is the best season. Why? Let me tell you. In spring, the days get warmer and warmer, the sky is blue, the air is clean, the trees and grass turn green, and all kinds of flowers are beautiful. There are so many beautiful things. In spring, I can store my winter's clothes in the bag under my bed and put on the sweater or other spring's clothes. They're colorful and trendy. I can do enough outdoor activities, like flying kites. In spring, I like going out for a walk when it rains. I think it's a wonderful thing. The rain washes away the drought of winter and brings in nice and wet air. Spring is the most beautiful and the most wonderful season. I love everything that the spring brings. When you finish reading this passage, I hope you will love spring, too.英语课前演讲 3 分钟 3 Springs are not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon Virginia hills in one prodigious leap – and all the stage is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight. In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. “I know you’re out there,” I cry. “Come in!” And April slips into our arms. The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet markings. Within the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled. One examines the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples display their milliner’s scraps of ivory silk, rosetinged. All the sleeping things wake up – primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms – you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands. Look to the rue anemone, if you will, or the pea patch, or to the stubborn weed that thrusts its shoulders through a city street. This is how it was, is now, and ever shall be, the world without end. In the serene certainty of spring recurring, who can fear the distant fall?