有關(guān)世界著名英文詩(shī)歌欣賞
有關(guān)世界著名英文詩(shī)歌欣賞
英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌是高雅的語(yǔ)言藝術(shù)之一,大多是對(duì)真、善、美的謳歌,對(duì)人類精神文明的禮贊,是光華燦爛的明珠、美妙絕倫的樂曲。小編精心收集了有關(guān)世界著名英文詩(shī)歌，供大家欣賞學(xué)習(xí)!
有關(guān)世界著名英文詩(shī)歌篇1
Lord Randall
by Anonymous
"Oh where ha'e ye been， Lord Randall my son?
O where ha'e ye been， my handsome young man?"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood： mother， make my bed soon，
For I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner， Lord Randall my son?
Where gat ye your dinner， my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi' my true love; mother， make my bed soon，
For I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."
"What gat ye to your dinner， Lord Randall my son?
What gat ye to your dinner， my handsome young man?"
"I gat eels boiled in broo： mother， make my bed soon，
For I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."
"What became of your bloodhounds， Lord Randall my son?
What became of your bloodhounds， my handsome young man?"
"O they swelled and they died： mother， make my bed soon，
for I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."
"O I fear ye are poisoned， Lord Randall my son!
O I fear ye are poisoned， my handsome young man!"
"O yes， I am poisoned： mother， make my bed soon，
For I'm sick at the heart， and I fain wald lie down."
有關(guān)世界著名英文詩(shī)歌篇2
Late Self-Portrait by Rembrandtby Jane Hirshfield
The dog， dead for years， keeps coming back in the dream.
We look at each other there with the old joy.
It was always her gift to bring me into the present—
Which sleeps， changes， awakens， dresses， leaves.
Happiness and unhappiness
differ as a bucket hammered from gold differs from one of pressed tin，
this painting proposes.
Each carries the same water， it says
有關(guān)世界著名英文詩(shī)歌篇3
Jack
by Maxine Kumin
How pleasant the yellow butter
melting on white kernels， the meniscus
of red wine that coats the insides of our goblets
where we sit with sturdy friends as old as we are
after shucking the garden's last Silver Queen
and setting husks and stalks aside for the horses
the last two of our lives， still noble to look upon：
our first foal， now a bossy mare of 28
which calibrates to 84 in people years
and my chestnut gelding， not exactly a youngster
at 22. Every year， the end of summer
lazy and golden， invites grief and regret：
suddenly it's 1980， winter buffets us，
winds strike like cruelty out of Dickens. Somehow
we have seven horses for six stalls. One of them，
a big-nosed roan gelding， calm as a president's portrait
lives in the rectangle that leads to the stalls. We call it
the motel lobby. Wise old campaigner， he dunks his
hay in the water bucket to soften it， then visits the others
who hang their heads over their dutch doors. Sometimes
he sprawls out flat to nap in his commodious quarters.
That spring， in the bustle of grooming
and riding and shoeing， I remember I let him go
to a neighbor I thought was a friend， and the following
fall she sold him down the river. I meant to
but never did go looking for him， to buy him back
and now my old guilt is flooding this twilit table
my guilt is ghosting the candles that pale us to skeletons
the ones we must all become in an as yet unspecified order.
Oh Jack， tethered in what rough stall alone
did you remember that one good winter?
有關(guān)世界著名英文詩(shī)歌篇4
Late Night Ode
by J. D. McClatchy
It's over， love. Look at me pushing fifty now，
Hair like grave-grass growing in both ears，
The piles and boggy prostate， the crooked penis，
The sour taste of each day's first lie，
And that recurrent dream of years ago pulling
A swaying bead-chain of moonlight，
Of slipping between the cool sheets of dark Along a body like my own， but blameless.
What good's my cut-glass conversation now，
Now I'm so effortlessly vulgar and sad?
You get from life what you can shake from it?
For me， it's g and t's all day and CNN.
Try the blond boychick lawyer， entry level
At eighty grand， who pouts about the overtime，
Keeps Evian and a beeper in his locker at the gym，
And hash in tinfoil under the office fern.
There's your hound from heaven， with buccaneer
Curls and perfumed war-paint on his nipples.
His answering machine always has room for one more Slurred， embarrassed call from you-know-who.
Some nights I've laughed so hard the tears Won't stop. Look at me now. Why now?
I long ago gave up pretending to believe Anyone's memory will give as good as it gets.
So why these stubborn tears? And why do I dream
Almost every night of holding you again，
Or at least of diving after you， my long-gone，
Through the bruised unbalanced waves?
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