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洛威爾經典詩歌賞析

 艾米?洛威爾,美國詩人,她的第壹部詩集是《多彩玻璃頂》。1913年她在實驗性的意象派運動中脫穎而出,並繼埃茲拉?龐德之後而成為該運動的領袖人物。她運用?自由韻律散文?和自由詩的形式進行創作,被稱為?無韻之韻?。下面是我為大家帶來的洛威爾經典詩歌:《海之戀》、《貨物》和《羊齒山》,希望能對大家的英語語感的培養以及口語的訓練有所幫助!

洛威爾經典詩歌:The Pleiades

 By day you cannot see the sky

 For it is up so very high.

 You look and look, but it's so blue

 That you can never see right through.

 But when night comes it is quite plain,

 And all the stars are there again.

 They seem just like old friends to me,

 I've known them all my life you see.

 There is the dipper first, and there

 Is Cassiopeia in her chair,

 Orion's belt, the Milky Way,

 And lots I know but cannot say.

 One group looks like a swarm of bees,

 Papa says they're the Pleiades;

 But I think they must be the toy

 Of some nice little angel boy.

 Perhaps his jackstones which to-day

 He has forgot to put away,

 And left them lying on the sky

 Where he will find them bye and bye.

 I wish he'd come and play with me.

 We'd have such fun, for it would be

 A most unusual thing for boys

 To feel that they had stars for toys!

  洛威爾詩歌欣賞:The Fruit Shop

 Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,

 High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;

 A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown

 She pluckered her little brows into

 As she picked her dainty passage through

 The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle,

 A dirty pathway, we need rain,

 My poor fruits suffer, and the shell

 Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain

 Here in the sun it has shrunk again.

 The baker down at the corner says

 We need a battle to shake the clouds;

 But I am a man of peace, my ways

 Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.

 Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!

 Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.

 Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool

 In here, for the green leaves I have run

 In a curtain over the door, make a pool

 Of shade. You see the pears on that stool --

 The shadow keeps them plump and fair."

 Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves

 Held back the sun, a greenish flare

 Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves

 Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,

 Shot from the golden letters, broke

 And splintered to little scattered lights.

 Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke

 Bonnet tilted itself to rights,

 And her face looked out like the moon on nights

 Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I

 Want gooseberries, an apple or two,

 Or excellent plums, but not if they're high;

 Haven't you some which a strong wind blew?

 I've only a couple of francs for you."

 Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands.

 What could he do, the times were sad.

 A couple of francs and such demands!

 And asking for fruits a little bad.

 Wind-blown indeed! He never had

 Anything else than the very best.

 He pointed to baskets of blunted pears

 With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest,

 All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears.

 Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears.

 He took up a pear with tender care,

 And pressed it with his hardened thumb.

 "Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there

 Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come

 Only from having a dish at home.

 And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine,

 Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey.

 They're only this morning off the vine,

 And I paid for them down in silver money.

 The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony

 Brought them in at sunrise to-day.

 Those oranges -- Gold! They're almost red.

 They seem little chips just broken away

 From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead

 You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay,

 When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray.

 Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs,

 They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships

 Make it a little hard for our rigs.

 They must be forever giving the slips

 To the cursed English, and when men clips

 Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts

 A bit in price. Those almonds now,

 I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts

 A life or two in a nigger row

 With the man who grew them, it does seem how

 They would come dear; and then the fight

 At sea perhaps, our boats have heels

 And mostly they sail along at night,

 But once in a way they're caught; one feels

 Ivory's not better nor finer -- why peels

 From an almond kernel are worth two sous.

 It's hard to sell them now," he sighed.

 "Purses are tight, but I shall not lose.

 There's plenty of cheaper things to choose."

 He picked some currants out of a wide

 Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue

 Almost fly out to suck them, bride

 Currants they are, they were planted long

 Ago for some new Marquise, among

 Other great beauties, before the Chateau

 Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife,

 He that marched off to his death at Marengo,

 Sells them to me; she keeps her life

 From snuffing out, with her pruning knife.

 She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade

 When her man was young, and the young Marquis

 Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made

 All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that

 he

 Was no friend to the people, and so they laid

 Some charge against him, a cavalcade

 Of citizens took him away; they meant

 Well, but I think there was some mistake.

 He just pottered round in his garden, bent

 On growing things; we were so awake

 In those days for the New Republic's sake.

 He's gone, and the garden is all that's left

 Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots,

 And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft

 Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots,

 Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft

 Or worm among them, and as for theft,

 How the old woman keeps them I cannot say,

 But they're finer than any grown this way."

 Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring

 Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down

 And shook it, two coins fell with a ding

 Of striking silver, beneath her gown

 One rolled, the other lay, a thing

 Sparked white and sharply glistening,

 In a drop of sunlight between two shades.

 She jerked the purse, took its empty ends

 And crumpled them toward the centre braids.

 The whole collapsed to a mass of blends

 Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends

 We have always been. In the days before

 The Great Revolution my aunt was kind

 When you needed help. You need no more;

 'Tis we now who must beg at your door,

 And will you refuse?" The little man

 Bustled, denied, his heart was good,

 But times were hard. He went to a pan

 And poured upon the counter a flood

 Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.

 He took a melon with rough green rind

 And rubbed it well with his apron tip.

 Then he hunted over the shop to find

 Some walnuts cracking at the lip,

 And added to these a barberry slip

 Whose acrid, oval berries hung

 Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round

 Basket, with handles, from where it swung

 Against the wall, laid it on the ground

 And filled it, then he searched and found

 The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall.

 "You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?"

 She smiled, "The next time that I call,

 Monsieur. You know that very well."

 'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell.

 Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed.

 She took her basket and stepped out.

 The sunlight was so bright it flashed

 Her eyes to blindness, and the rout

 Of the little street was all about.

 Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed.

 The heavy basket was a care.

 She heard a shout and almost grazed

 The panels of a chaise and pair.

 The postboy yelled, and an amazed

 Face from the carriage window gazed.

 She jumped back just in time, her heart

 Beating with fear. Through whirling light

 The chaise departed, but her smart

 Was keen and bitter. In the white

 Dust of the street she saw a bright

 Streak of colours, wet and gay,

 Red like blood. Crushed but fair,

 Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way.

 Monsieur Popain joined her there.

 "Tiens, Mademoiselle,

 c'est le General Bonaparte,

 partant pour la Guerre!"

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