有關優美英文詩歌欣賞

　　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美英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!

　　有關優美英文詩歌篇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