關於好的英文詩詞閱讀

  英語詩歌的特點和其他語言詩歌的特點一樣,都是形象的語言和富於音樂性的語言。小編精心收集了關於好的英文詩詞,供大家欣賞學習!

  關於好的英文詩詞篇1

  The Weary Blues

  by Langston Hughes

  Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,

  Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,

  I heard a Negro play.

  Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

  By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

  He did a lazy sway . . .

  He did a lazy sway . . .

  To the tune o' those Weary Blues.

  With his ebony hands on each ivory key

  He made that poor piano moan with melody.

  O Blues!

  Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

  He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

  Sweet Blues!

  Coming from a black man's soul.

  O Blues!

  In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

  I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan——

  "Ain't got nobody in all this world,

  Ain't got nobody but ma self.

  I's gwine to quit ma frownin'

  And put ma troubles on the shelf."

  Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.

  He played a few chords then he sang some more——

  "I got the Weary Blues

  And I can't be satisfied.

  Got the Weary Blues

  And can't be satisfied——

  I ain't happy no mo'

  And I wish that I had died."

  And far into the night he crooned that tune.

  The stars went out and so did the moon.

  The singer stopped playing and went to bed

  While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

  He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

  關於好的英文詩詞篇2

  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.

  關於好的英文詩詞篇3

  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.

  關於好的英文詩詞篇4

  Constellations

  by Steven Heighton

  After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser

  and peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped

  gable-wall, dimming the night vault of her ceiling

  like a haze or the interfering glow

  of a great city, small hands anticipating

  eons as they raided the playful patterns

  her father had mapped for her - black holes now

  where the raised thumb-stubs and ears of the Bat

  had been, the feet of the Turtle, wakeful

  eyes of the Mourning Dove. She stuck those paper

  stars on herself. One on each foot, the backs

  of her hands, navel, tip of nose and so on,

  then turned on the lamp by her bed and stood close

  like a child chilled after a winter bath

  pressed up to an air duct or a radiator

  until those paper stars absorbed more light

  than they could hold. Then turned off the lamp,

  walked out into the dark hallway and called.

  Her father came up. He heard her breathing

  as he clomped upstairs preoccupied, wrenched

  out of a rented film just now taking grip

  on him and the child's mother, his day-end

  bottle of beer set carefully on the stairs,

  marking the trail back down into that evening

  adult world - he could hear her breathing ***or

  really, more an anxious, breathy giggle*** but

  couldn't see her, then in the hallway stopped,

  mind spinning to sort the apparition

  of fireflies hovering ahead, till he sensed

  his daughter and heard in her breathing

  the pent, grave concentration of her pose,

  mapped onto the star chart of the darkness,

  arms stretched high, head back, one foot slightly raised -

  the Dancer, he supposed, and all his love

  spun to centre with crushing force, to find her

  momentarily fixed, as unchanging

  as he and her mother must seem to her,

  and the way the stars are; as if the stars are.