關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌
關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌
詩(shī)歌是人類的語(yǔ)言瑰寶,可以提高人的精神修養(yǎng)、藝術(shù)修養(yǎng)和語(yǔ)言修養(yǎng)。小編精心收集了關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌，供大家欣賞學(xué)習(xí)!
關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌篇1
The Wooden Trap
by Kevin Cantwell
The held cry of a hawk makes Thomas Hardy think
to make her believe it's a newborn's cry she hears.
Milk wets through her blouse. The other women know
at once. That's chapter one. How it starts
to grow while above his head the cumuli
accumulate. The August fields waver beyond
the privet hedge. He's given up the novel
for poetry. The women look at each other.
One counts out change on a plank counter.
That's that she says. Then exposition's drift
to flashback： How a horseshoe loosens;
how when leading the horse the master returns.
Not angry， only to get it done right.
How she presses under the eaves of the shed
with him while the afternoon rain comes down
so hard they are nearly soaked anyway.
The editorial omniscient bites his tongue.
Innocent as it goes. The scent of windfall
rises up through the apple tree from the ground.
Some of the leaves bronze even now. There's no
turning back but that's getting ahead of ourselves.
There's Hardy. Shoes a disgrace. Canvas gaiters
undone and one foot on top of the ladder
where it narrows at the highest rung， the worn wood
twice the width of a stirrup， and one foot
in the crotch of a limb. He has it all
worked out. She's in another country where rumor's made
a place for her. Where's the little one?
they ask， but she presses past them into the lane，
It serves her right but no one says it
so that she hears. A limb tumbles through the green
cloud of foliage. And then another. He cuts it back
to make it bear， though a neighbor's stopped to tell him
it's ill-advised so late in the season.
She finds a place for herself as a domestic
until the governor says a girl's come back.
They'll have to let her go. It's dusk. The clouds
go pink to shell. He folds the little saw.
The ladder widens to its base， A trick of perspective
also that lures the gopher into the wooden box
he's set in its tunnel， the hole which looks
like an exit， the end of the tunnel， daylight，
but smaller than its head and those footsteps
on the earth above， which pause and anticipate
her every turn， and block her escape
with a garden fork plunged into the lyric dark.
關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌篇2
The Women Who Clean Fish
by Erica Funkhouser
The women who clean fish are all named Rose
or Grace. They wake up close to the water，
damp and dreamy beneath white sheets，
thinking of white beaches.
It is always humid where they work.
Under plastic aprons， their breasts
foam and bubble. They wear old clothes
because the smell will never go.
On the floor， chlorine.
On the window， dry streams left by gulls.
When tourists come to watch them
working over belts of cod and hake，
they don't look up.
They stand above the gutter. When the belt starts
they pack the bodies in， ten per box，
their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament.
The dead fish fall compliantly.
It is the iridescent scales that stick，
clinging to cheek and wrist，
lighting up hours later in a dark room.
The packers say they feel orange spawn
between their fingers， the smell of themselves
more like salt than peach.
關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌篇3
The Woodspurge
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The wind flapped loose， the wind was still，
Shaken out dead from tree and hill：
I had walked on at the wind's will，
I sat now， for the wind was still.
Between my knees my forehead was，
My lips， drawn in， said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass，
My naked ears heard the day pass.
My eyes， wide open， had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few， out of the sun，
The woodspurge flowered， three cups in one.
From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory：
One thing then learnt remains to me，
The woodspurge has a cup of three.
關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌篇4
The World
by George Herbert
Love built a stately house， where Fortune came，
And spinning fancies， she was heard to say
That her fine cobwebs did support the frame，
Whereas they were supported by the same;
But Wisdom quickly swept them all away.
The Pleasure came， who， liking not the fashion，
Began to make balconies， terraces，
Till she had weakened all by alteration;
But reverend laws， and many a proclomation
Reforméd all at length with menaces.
Then entered Sin， and with that sycamore
Whose leaves first sheltered man from drought and dew，
Working and winding slily evermore，
The inward walls and summers cleft and tore;
But Grace shored these， and cut that as it grew.
Then Sin combined with death in a firm band，
To raze the building to the very floor;
Which they effected，——none could them withstand;
But Love and Grace took Glory by the hand，
And built a braver palace than before.
關(guān)于好的優(yōu)秀英文詩(shī)歌篇5
The Writer
by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks， and the windows are tossed with linden，
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell， hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is， the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo， and some of it heavy：
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses，
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens， in which
The whole house seems to be thinking，
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes， and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room， two years ago;
How we stole in， lifted a sash
And retreated， not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour， through the crack of the door，
We watched the sleek， wild， dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance， drop like a glove
To the hard floor， or the desk-top，
And wait then， humped and bloody，
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when， suddenly sure，
It lifted off from a chair-back，
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter， my darling，
Of life or death， as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before， but harder.
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