有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌欣賞
有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌欣賞
英語詩歌的特點是短小精悍,語言簡練,注重押韻,具有豐富的想象力,是英語文學中的瑰寶。小編精心收集了有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!
有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌篇1
Museum Guard
by David Hernandez
My condolences to the man dressed
for a funeral， sitting bored
on a gray folding chair， the zero
of his mouth widening in a yawn.
No doubt he's pictured himself inside
a painting or two around his station，
stealing a plump green grape
from the cluster hanging above
the corkscrew locks of Dionysus，
or shooting arrows at rosy-cheeked cherubs
hiding behind a woolly cloud.
With time limping along
like a Bruegel beggar， no doubt
he's even seen himself taking the place
of the one crucified： the black spike
of the minute hand piercing his left palm，
the hour hand penetrating the right，
nailed forever to one spot.
有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌篇2
Notes on the Spring Holidays (excerpt)
by Charles Reznikoff
Hanukkah
In a world where each man must be of use
and each thing useful， the rebellious Jews
light not one light but eight——
not to see by but to look at.
有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌篇3
Notes from the Other Side
by Jane Kenyon
I divested myself of despair and fear when I came here.
Now there is no more catching one's own eye in the mirror，
there are no bad books， no plastic，no insurance premiums， and of course
no illness. Contrition does not exist， nor gnashing
of teeth. No one howls as the first clod of earth hits the casket.
The poor we no longer have with us. Our calm hearts strike only the hour，
and God， as promised， proves to be mercy clothed in light
有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌篇4
Out-of-the-Body Travel
by Stanley Plumly
1
And then he would lift this finest
of furniture to his big left shoulder
and tuck it in and draw the bow
so carefully as to make the music
almost visible on the air. And play
and play until a whole roomful of the sad
relatives mourned. They knew this was
drawing of blood， threading and rethreading
the needle. They saw even in my father's
face how well he understood the pain
he put them to——his raw， red cheek
pressed against the cheek of the wood . . .
2
And in one stroke he brings the hammer
down， like mercy， so that the young bull's
legs suddenly fly out from under it . . .
While in the dream he is the good angel
in Chagall， the great ghost of his body
like light over the town. The violin
sustains him. It is pain remembered.
Either way， I know if I wake up cold，
and go out into the clear spring night，
still dark and precise with stars，
I will feel the wind coming down hard
like his hand， in fever， on my forehead
有關優(yōu)美英文詩歌篇5
Nothing But Deathby Pablo Neruda Translated by Robert Bly
There are cemeteries that are lonely，
graves full of bones that do not make a sound，
the heart moving through a tunnel，
in it darkness， darkness， darkness，
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves，
as though we were drowning inside our hearts，
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses，
feet made of cold and sticky clay，
death is inside the bones，
like a barking where there are no dogs，
coming out from bells somewhere， from graves somewhere，
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail，
embarking with the pale dead， with women that have dead hair，
with bakers who are as white as angels，
and pensive young girls married to notary publics，
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead，
the river of dark purple，
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death，
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it， like a suit with no man in it，
comes and knocks， using a ring with no stone in it， with no finger in it，
comes and shouts with no mouth， with no tongue， with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
]and its clothing makes a hushed sound， like a tree.
I'm not sure， I understand only a little， I can hardly see，
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets，
of violets that are at home in the earth，
because the face of death is green，
and the look death gives is green，
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom，
lapping the floor， looking for dead bodies，
death is inside the broom，
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses，
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the folding cots：
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses，
in the black blankets， and suddenly breathes out：
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets，
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting， dressed like an admiral
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