引導語：大家對安徒生的童話故事瞭解?學習過哪些?下面是小編整理的安琪兒中英文版本的，歡迎大家閱讀!
“只要有一個好孩子死去，就會有一個上帝的安琪兒飛到世界上來。他把死去的孩子抱在懷裏，展開他的白色的大翅膀，在孩子生前喜愛的地方飛翔。他摘下一大把花。把它們帶到天上去，好叫它們開得比在人間更美麗。仁慈的上帝把這些花緊緊地摟在胸前，但是他只吻那棵他認爲最可愛的花。這棵花於是就有了聲音，能跟大家一起唱着幸福的頌歌。”
你聽，這就是上帝的安琪兒抱着一個死孩子飛上天說所講的話。孩子聽到這些話的時候，就像在做夢一樣。他們飛過了他在家裏玩過的許多地方，飛過了開滿美麗的花朵的花園。
“我們把哪一朵花兒帶去栽在天上呢?”安琪兒問。
他們看見一棵細長的、美麗的玫瑰，但是它的花梗已經被一隻惡毒的手摘斷了。所以它那些長滿了半開的花苞的枝子都垂了下來，萎謝了。
“可憐的玫瑰花!”孩子說。“把它帶走吧。它可以在上帝的面前開出花來的!”
安琪兒就把這朵花帶走了，同時還因此吻了孩子一下。孩子半睜開他的眼睛。他們摘下了幾朵美麗的花，但也帶走了幾朵被人瞧不起的金鳳花和野生的三色堇花。
“現在我們可有了花兒了。”孩子說。安琪兒點點頭，可是他們並沒有飛到天上去。
這是夜晚，非常靜寂。他們停留在這座大城裏。他們在一條最狹窄的街上飛。街上堆着許多幹草、塵土和垃圾，因爲這是一個搬家的日子。這兒還有破碎的碗盤、牆上脫落下來的泥塊、爛布和破帽子——這一切都不太好看。
安琪兒在這堆爛東西中間指着幾塊花盆的碎片和花盆裏面掉出來的一團幹泥塊。一大棵枯萎了的野花用它的根把自己和這塊土堆系在一起。這棵花現在已經沒有用，因此被人拋到街上來了。
“我們要把這棵花帶走!”安琪兒說，“我在飛行的時候再把理由告訴你。”
於是他們就飛走了。安琪兒講了這樣一個故事：
“在下面這條窄街上的一個很低的地下室裏，住着一個生病的窮孩子。從很小的時候起，他就一直躺在牀上，他身體最好的時候，可以拄着柺杖在那個小房間裏來回地走一兩次。他至多隻能做到這一點。每年夏天，太陽光有幾天可以射進這個地下室的前房，每次大約有半點鐘的光景。當小孩坐在那兒、讓溫暖的太陽光照在身上的時候，他就把瘦小的指頭伸到面前，望着裏面的鮮紅的血色。這時人們就說：‘今天這孩子出來了。’
“他對於樹林的知識是從春天的綠色中體會出來的。因爲鄰家的孩子帶給了他第一根山毛櫸的.綠枝。他把它舉在頭上，幻想自己來到了一個山毛櫸的樹林裏——這兒有太陽光射進來，有鳥兒在唱歌。
“在一個春天的日子裏，那個鄰家的孩子又帶給他幾棵野花。在這些野花中間，有一棵還很偶然帶着根子。因此這棵花就被栽在一個花盆裏，放在牀邊，緊靠着窗子了。這棵花是一隻幸運的手栽種的，因此它就生長起來，冒出新芽，每年開出花朵，成了這個病孩子的最美麗的花園——他在這世界上的一個寶庫。他爲它澆水，照料它，儘量使它得到射進這扇低矮的窗子裏來的每一線陽光。
“這棵花兒常常來到他的夢裏，因爲它爲他開出了花，爲他散發出香氣，使他的眼睛得到快感。當上帝召他去的時候，他在死神面前最後要看的東西就是這棵花。
“現在他住在天上已經有一年了。在這一年中，這棵花在窗子上完全被人忘掉了。它已經枯萎，因此搬家的時候，就被人扔在街上的垃圾堆裏。我們現在把這棵可憐的、萎謝了的花收進我們的花束中來，因爲它給予人的快樂，大大超過了皇家花園裏面那些最豔麗的花。”
“你怎麼知道這件事的呢?”這個被安琪兒帶上天去的孩子問。
“我當然知道，”安琪兒說，“因爲我就是那個拄着柺杖走路的病孩子呀!我當然認識我的花!”
孩子睜着一雙大眼睛，凝望着安琪兒的美麗幸福的臉。正在這時候，他們來到了天上，來到了和平幸福的天堂。上帝把孩子緊緊地摟在胸前，但是他卻吻着那棵可憐的、萎謝了的野花。因此那棵野花就有了聲音。現在它能跟別的安琪兒一齊歌唱，並且在他們周圍飛翔了——他們有的飛得很近，有的繞着大圈子，飛得很遠，飛到無垠的遠方，但他們全都是幸福的。
他們都唱着歌——大大小小的、善良快樂的孩子們，還有搬家那天被扔在狹巷裏垃圾堆上的那棵枯萎了的可憐的野花，大家都唱着歌。
安琪兒英文版：
The Angel
WHENEVER a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from heaven, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies with him over all the places which the child had loved during his life. Then he gathers a large handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom more brightly in heaven than they do on earth. And the Almighty presses the flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and it receives a voice, and is able to join the song of the chorus of bliss.”
These words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead child up to heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream. Then they passed over well-known spots, where the little one had often played, and through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.
“Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted there?” asked the angel.
Close by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked hand had broken the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded and withered on the trailing branches.
“Poor rose-bush!” said the child, “let us take it with us to heaven, that it may bloom above in God’s garden.”
The angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the little one half opened his eyes. The angel gathered also some beautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and heart’s-ease.
“Now we have flowers enough,” said the child; but the angel only nodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.
It was night, and quite still in the great town. Here they remained, and the angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in which lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweepings from the houses of people who had removed. There lay fragments of plates, pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant to see. Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a broken flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of it. The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a withered field-flower, which had been thrown amongst the rubbish.
“We will take this with us,” said the angel, “I will tell you why as we fly along.”
And as they flew the angel related the history.
“Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy; he had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he could just manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or twice, but no more. During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie on the floor of the cellar for about half an hour. In this spot the poor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine, and watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held them before his face. Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure, till a neighbor’s son brought him a green bough from a beech-tree. This he would place over his head, and fancy that he was in the beech-wood while the sun shone, and the birds carolled gayly. One spring day the neighbor’s boy brought him some field-flowers, and among them was one to which the root still adhered. This he carefully planted in a flower-pot, and placed in a window-seat near his bed. And the flower had been planted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots, and blossomed every year. It became a splendid flower-garden to the sick boy, and his little treasure upon earth. He watered it, and cherished it, and took care it should have the benefit of every sunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the earliest morning ray to the evening sunset. The flower entwined itself even in his dreams—for him it bloomed, for him spread its perfume. And it gladdened his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even in death, when the Lord called him. He has been one year with God. During that time the flower has stood in the window, withered and forgotten, till at length cast out among the sweepings into the street, on the day of the lodgers’ removal. And this poor flower, withered and faded as it is, we have added to our nosegay, because it gave more real joy than the most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen.”
“But how do you know all this?” asked the child whom the angel was carrying to heaven.
“I know it,” said the angel, “because I myself was the poor sick boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well.”
Then the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious happy face of the angel, and at the same moment they found themselves in that heavenly home where all is happiness and joy. And God pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings were given him so that he could fly with the angel, hand in hand. Then the Almighty pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the withered field-flower, and it received a voice. Then it joined in the song of the angels, who surrounded the throne, some near, and others in a distant circle, but all equally happy. They all joined in the chorus of praise, both great and small,—the good, happy child, and the poor field-flower, that once lay withered and cast away on a heap of rubbish in a narrow, dark street.
