大家帮帮忙翻译一下这篇文章，悬赏100分！！翻译得好的追加100分！！

It is as though some giant’s hand were squeezing the trunks of the trees,forcing the sap up and along the branches,for the blossom seems to squirt into the air.
There have been other Mays in other years,but never has there been so much blossom..The bees are bewildered by it.A few small bush-apples which were as austere as walking-sticks when I planted them only two months ago are now in full flower,and look like little girls just off to a carnival.
Peach,cherry,plum and apple strain into the air;all the trees in the orchard are out together,and for once,no clumsy wind has shorn or washed their frail.enamed,fine petals down into he lecherous hands of grass.
What flower is there as delicate as this flower that grows out of a knarled old tree with its trunk all twisted and its bark all blistered?It is a paradox..Beauty is always a paraox.
The village postman is an amateur with a grafting knife.But by “amateeur”I do not suggest that he is incompetent.I mean what the word means-that is,I wish to say:he loves.For it is more than a casual interest or a hobby that takes him out into his orchard in the very grip of winter whilst he makes his careful cut into the stump of an old tree and grafts a new clean shoot into it.And it is more than an interest in arboriculture that keeps him there for hours pottering about with a jarof white clay,which he uses to cover the graft and keep the air from the moist joint.I have watched him binding his bandages over the virtue has man than his ability to love?And the object of the love does not matter:it can be a woman,a dog or a stump of an old tree.It is only the love that matters.That is all that ever matters.The rest is as irrelevant as a wind blowing over a shoreless ocean.
With the postman’s triumph of getting both pink and white blossom on a single tree,I shouldn't be surprised to see even my gateposts or my wife’s clothes-prop burst into sudden and urgent flower.
It is not so easy to describ this spring.We feel shy of it,even awkward –like Joe,the carpenter’s son,who’s been musing over my orchard gate for the last half-hour.Silently we exchanged cigarettes.Then,whilst staring at my most decrepit old tree,which stood in full flamboyant bloom,he said,half to himself:”When we were retreating to Dunkrik I often wondered what it was I defending;and when we landed in Normandy I used to ask myself what I was fighting for...I suppose I was fighting for that there old tree of yours!Damn funny,ain't it?"

相当长。手译要花不少时间。但文章很有意思。所以我打算给你译。不过我眼下忙着，要见缝插针一点一点翻译。你等着啊。

兄弟，我刚看到这篇文字是翻译征文比赛的题目

http://news.hebut.edu.cn/news_view.asp?newsid=1120

你是要参加比赛吗？如果是，你应该自己做作业啊。

你如果做完了没把握，可以贴到这里，大家帮你看看。

我的翻译就暂时不贴了。你先说说详情吧。

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