一美BBC睡前故事系列之Love，just like starlight，never die.《爱如星光不熄》，我很喜欢，存档。
"Are you ready for bed?”
“Have you brushed your teeth?”
“Have you got your Teddy bear with you?”
“Small in tonight's bedtime story asks a lot of questions.Would you like to hear about him?”
Small was feeling grim and dark.Playing toss and fling and squash.Yell and scream and bang and crash.Break and snap and bash and batter.
“Good grief!”said Large.“What is the matter?”
Small said,“I'm a grim and grumpy little Small.And nobody loves me at all.”
“Oh Small!”said Large.“Grumpy or not,I'll always love you no matter what.”
Small said,“If I were a grizzly bear.Would you love?Would you care?”
“Of course.”said Large.“Bear or not.I'll always love you no matter what.”
Small said,“But,if I turned into a bug.Would you still love me and give a hug?”
“Of course I would.”said Large.“Bug or not,I'll always love you no matter what.”
“No matter what?”said Small and smiled.“What if I were a crocodile?”
Large said,“I'd hug you close and tight.And tuck you up in bed each night.”
“Does love wear out?”Asked Small.“Does it break or bend?Can you fix it,stick it?Does it mend?”
“Oh help.”said Large.“I'm not that clever.I just know I'll love you for ever.”
Small asked,“But what about when we're dead and gone?Would you love me then?Does love go on?”Large held Small snug as they looked out at the night at the moon in the dark,and the stars shining bright.
“Small,look at the stars--how they shine and glow,but some of those stars died a long time ago.Still they shine in the evening skies.”
Love,like starlight, never dies.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.