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      學(xué)習(xí)啦 > 學(xué)習(xí)英語(yǔ) > 英語(yǔ)閱讀 > 英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌 > 關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌欣賞

      關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌欣賞

      時(shí)間: 韋彥867 分享

      關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌欣賞

        英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌作為文學(xué)的表現(xiàn)形式之一,在分類、節(jié)奏、韻律、構(gòu)思、詞序、選詞等方面都自成體系,以自己獨(dú)特的形式展示著詩(shī)人對(duì)生活的理解。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌,歡迎閱讀!

        關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌篇一

        Continued

        by Piotr Sommer

        Nothing will be the same as it was,

        even enjoying the same things

        won't be the same. Our sorrows

        will differ one from the other and we

        will differ one from the other in our worries.

        And nothing will be the same as it was,

        nothing at all. Simple thoughts will sound

        different, newer, since they'll be more simply, more newly

        spoken. The heart will know how to open up and love

        won't be love anymore. Everything will change.

        Nothing will be the same as it was

        and that too will be new somehow, since after all,

        before, things could be similar: morning,

        the rest of the day, evening and night, but not now.

        關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌篇二

        The White Room

        by Charles Simic

        The obvious is difficult

        To prove. Many prefer

        The hidden. I did, too.

        I listened to the trees.

        They had a secret

        Which they were about to

        Make known to me——

        And then didn't.

        Summer came. Each tree

        On my street had its own

        Scheherazade. My nights

        Were a part of their wild

        Storytelling. We were

        Entering dark houses,

        Always more dark houses,

        Hushed and abandoned.

        There was someone with eyes closed

        On the upper floors.

        The fear of it, and the wonder,

        Kept me sleepless.

        The truth is bald and cold,

        Said the woman

        Who always wore white.

        She didn't leave her room.

        The sun pointed to one or two

        Things that had survived

        The long night intact.

        The simplest things,

        Difficult in their obviousness.

        They made no noise.

        It was the kind of day

        People described as "perfect."

        Gods disguising themselves

        As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,

        A comb with a tooth missing?

        No! That wasn't it.

        Just things as they are,

        Unblinking, lying mute

        In that bright light——

        And the trees waiting for the night.

        關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌篇三

        Continuity

        by A. R. Ammons

        I've pressed so

        far away from

        my desire that

        if you asked

        me what I

        want I would,

        accepting the harmonious

        completion of the

        drift, say annihilation,

        probably.

        關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌篇四

        The Wine-Drinkers

        by Tennessee Williams

        The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun.

        Their lack of success in love has made them torpid.

        They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather,

        the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.

        Let us commend them on their conversations.

        One says "oh" and the other says "indeed."

        The afternoon must be prolonged forever,

        because the night will be impossible for them.

        They know that the bright and very delicate needles

        inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins

        will work after dark—at present are drugged, are dormant.

        Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance.

        One says "no," the other one murmurs "why?"

        The cousins pause: tumescent.

        What do they dream of? Murder?

        They dream of lust and they long for violent action but none occurs.

        Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum

        The light is empty: the sun forestalls reflection.

        關(guān)于好的英文詩(shī)歌篇五

        The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood'

        by Agha Shahid Ali

        First, grant me my sense of history:

        I did it for posterity,

        for kindergarten teachers

        and a clear moral:

        Little girls shouldn't wander off

        in search of strange flowers,

        and they mustn't speak to strangers.

        And then grant me my generous sense of plot:

        Couldn't I have gobbled her up

        right there in the jungle?

        Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?

        As if I, a forest-dweller,

        didn't know of the cottage

        under the three oak trees

        and the old woman lived there

        all alone?

        As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before?

        And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf,

        now my only reputation.

        But I was no child-molester

        though you'll agree she was pretty.

        And the huntsman:

        Was I sleeping while he snipped

        my thick black fur

        and filled me with garbage and stones?

        I ran with that weight and fell down,

        simply so children could laugh

        at the noise of the stones

        cutting through my belly,

        at the garbage spilling out

        with a perfect sense of timing,

        just when the tale

        should have come to an end.

        
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