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關於經典優美的英文詩歌欣賞

 詩歌是壹種典型的文學形式,它既屬於文學,又是壹種藝術。古今中外,對於詩歌的研究從未間斷,我們在研究的過程中發現詩歌的美,同時又在前人研究的基礎上創造出更好的詩歌作品。我精心收集了關於經典優美的英文詩歌,供大家欣賞學習!

關於經典優美的英文詩歌篇1

 The Poem as Mask

 by Muriel Rukeyser

 When I wrote of the women in their dances and wildness, it was a mask,

 on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,

 it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,

 fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,

 it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.

 There is no mountain, there is no god, there is memory

 of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued child

 beside me among the doctors, and a word

 of rescue from the great eyes.

 No more masks! No more mythologies!

 Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,

 the fragments join in me with their own music.

關於經典優美的英文詩歌篇2

 The Poet of Bray

 by John Heath-Stubbs

 Back in the dear old thirties' days

 When politics was passion

 A harmless left-wing bard was I

 And so I grew in fashion:

 Although I never really joined

 The Party of the Masses

 I was most awfully chummy with

 The Proletarian classes.

 This is the course I'll always steer

 Until the stars grow dim, sir?

 That howsoever taste may veer

 I'll be in the swim, sir.

 But as the tide of war swept on

 I turned Apocalyptic:

 With symbol, myth and archetype

 My verse grew crammed and cryptic:

 With New Romantic zeal I swore

 That Auden was a fake, sir,

 And found the mind of Nicky Moore

 More int'resting than Blake, sir.

 White Horsemen down New Roads had run

 But taste required improvement:

 I turned to greet the rising sun

 And so I joined the Movement!

 Glittering and ambiguous

 In villanelles I sported:

 With Dr. Leavis I concurred,

 And when he sneezed I snorted.

 But seeing that even John Wax might wane

 I left that one-way street, sir;

 I modified my style again,

 And now I am a Beat, sir:

 So very beat, my soul is beat

 Into a formless jelly:

 I set my verses now to jazz

 And read them on the telly.

 Perpetual non-conformist I?

 And that's the way I'm staying?

 The angriest young man alive

 (Although my hair is greying)

 And in my rage I'll not relent?

 No, not one single minute?

 Against the base Establishment

 (Until, of course, I'm in it)。

 This is the course I'll always steer

 Until the stars grow dim, sir?

 That howsoever taste may veer

 I'll be in the swim, sir.

關於經典優美的英文詩歌篇3

 The Pomegranateby Eavan Boland

 The only legend I have ever loved is

 the story of a daughter lost in hell.

 And found and rescued there.

 Love and blackmail are the gist of it.

 Ceres and Persephone the names.

 And the best thing about the legend is

 I can enter it anywhere. And have.

 As a child in exile in

 a city of fogs and strange consonants,

 I read it first and at first I was

 an exiled child in the crackling dusk of

 the underworld, the stars blighted. Later

 I walked out in a summer twilight

 searching for my daughter at bed-time.

 When she came running I was ready

 to make any bargain to keep her.

 I carried her back past whitebeams

 and wasps and honey-scented buddleias.

 But I was Ceres then and I knew

 winter was in store for every leaf

 on every tree on that road.

 Was inescapable for each one we passed.

 And for me.

 It is winter

 and the stars are hidden.

 I climb the stairs and stand where I can see

 my child asleep beside her teen magazines,

 her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.

 The pomegranate! How did I forget it?

 She could have come home and been safe

 and ended the story and all

 our heart-broken searching but she reached

 out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.

 She put out her hand and pulled down

 the French sound for apple and

 the noise of stone and the proof

 that even in the place of death,

 at the heart of legend, in the midst

 of rocks full of unshed tears

 ready to be diamonds by the time

 the story was told, a child can be

 hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.

 The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.

 The suburb has cars and cable television.

 The veiled stars are above ground.

 It is another world. But what else

 can a mother give her daughter but such

 beautiful rifts in time?

 If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.

 The legend will be hers as well as mine.

 She will enter it. As I have.

 She will wake up. She will hold

 the papery flushed skin in her hand.

 And to her lips. I will say nothing.