關於英語現代詩歌欣賞

　　作為人類情感表達的藝術形式,詩歌的語言清新含蓄,深受人們喜愛。英文詩歌是英語民族的文化瑰寶,具有其獨特的感染力。下面是小編帶來的，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇一

　　Death,be not proudHoly Sonnet10

　　by John Donne

　　Death， be not proud， though some have called thee

　　Mighty and dreadful， for thou are not so;

　　For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

　　Die not， poor Death， nor yet canst thou kill me.

　　From rest and sleep， which but thy pictures be，

　　Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow，

　　And soonest our best men with thee do go，

　　Rest of their bones， and soul's delivery.

　　Thou'art slave to fate， chance， kings， and desperate men，

　　And dost with poison， war， and sickness dwell，

　　And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well

　　And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

　　One short sleep past， we wake eternally，

　　And death shall be no more; Death， thou shalt die.

　　篇二

　　Descriptions of Heaven and Hell

　　by Mark Jarman

　　The wave breaks

　　And I'm carried into it.

　　This is hell， I know，

　　Yet my father laughs，

　　Chest-deep， proving I'm wrong.

　　We're safely rooted，

　　Rocked on his toes.

　　Nothing irked him more

　　Than asking， "What is there

　　Beyond death?"

　　His theory once was

　　That love greets you，

　　And the loveless

　　Don't know what to say.

　　篇三

　　Wedding the Lock smith’s Daug

　　by Robin Robertson

　　The slow-grained slide to embed the blade

　　of the key is a sheathing，

　　a gliding on graphite， pushing inside

　　to find the ribs of the lock.

　　Sunk home， the true key slots to its matrix;

　　geared， tight-fitting， they turn

　　together， shooting the spring-lock，

　　throwing the bolt. Dactyls， iambics——

　　the clinch of words——the hidden couplings

　　in the cased machine. A chime of sound

　　on sound： the way the sung note snibs on meaning

　　and holds. The lines engage and marry now，

　　their bells are keeping time;

　　the church doors close and open underground.

　　篇四

　　Directory of Obsolete Securities

　　by Michael Teig

　　I could stay here humming

　　and amuse myself with the window.

　　The lowing cows you cannot see.

　　Another month I made up. Another asterisk.

　　How I wrestle with the newspaper

　　and other people's pillows.

　　How I think of Albert，

　　for he is like the names of the days.

　　He walks the field

　　kicking a potato，

　　dreaming of casinos.

　　His emissaries get lost in alleyways.

　　His bridges crawl with teenagers.

　　The phone rings，

　　the sky tilts away.

　　A whole migration of Albert under the office door.

　　Albert is in the Otzal Alps.

　　He sends postcards saying

　　getting to Albert might be difficult.

　　Airplanes fly over and that is useful.

　　Albert is in the estuary.

　　We sit on the porch sharing a swing.

　　He is as loud as a rifle， over and over.

　　He clears the fields of crows.