有關世界著名英文詩歌欣賞

　　英語詩歌是高雅的語言藝術之一,大多是對真、善、美的謳歌,對人類精神文明的禮讚,是光華燦爛的明珠、美妙絕倫的樂曲。小編精心收集了有關世界著名英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!

　　有關世界著名英文詩歌篇1

　　Lord Randall

　　by Anonymous

　　"Oh where ha'e ye been， Lord Randall my son?

　　O where ha'e ye been， my handsome young man?"

　　"I ha'e been to the wild wood： mother， make my bed soon，

　　For I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."

　　"Where gat ye your dinner， Lord Randall my son?

　　Where gat ye your dinner， my handsome young man?"

　　"I dined wi' my true love; mother， make my bed soon，

　　For I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."

　　"What gat ye to your dinner， Lord Randall my son?

　　What gat ye to your dinner， my handsome young man?"

　　"I gat eels boiled in broo： mother， make my bed soon，

　　For I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."

　　"What became of your bloodhounds， Lord Randall my son?

　　What became of your bloodhounds， my handsome young man?"

　　"O they swelled and they died： mother， make my bed soon，

　　for I'm weary wi' hunting， and fain wald lie down."

　　"O I fear ye are poisoned， Lord Randall my son!

　　O I fear ye are poisoned， my handsome young man!"

　　"O yes， I am poisoned： mother， make my bed soon，

　　For I'm sick at the heart， and I fain wald lie down."

　　有關世界著名英文詩歌篇2

　　Late Self-Portrait by Rembrandtby Jane Hirshfield

　　The dog， dead for years， keeps coming back in the dream.

　　We look at each other there with the old joy.

　　It was always her gift to bring me into the present—

　　Which sleeps， changes， awakens， dresses， leaves.

　　Happiness and unhappiness

　　differ as a bucket hammered from gold differs from one of pressed tin，

　　this painting proposes.

　　Each carries the same water， it says

　　有關世界著名英文詩歌篇3

　　Jack

　　by Maxine Kumin

　　How pleasant the yellow butter

　　melting on white kernels， the meniscus

　　of red wine that coats the insides of our goblets

　　where we sit with sturdy friends as old as we are

　　after shucking the garden's last Silver Queen

　　and setting husks and stalks aside for the horses

　　the last two of our lives， still noble to look upon：

　　our first foal， now a bossy mare of 28

　　which calibrates to 84 in people years

　　and my chestnut gelding， not exactly a youngster

　　at 22. Every year， the end of summer

　　lazy and golden， invites grief and regret：

　　suddenly it's 1980， winter buffets us，

　　winds strike like cruelty out of Dickens. Somehow

　　we have seven horses for six stalls. One of them，

　　a big-nosed roan gelding， calm as a president's portrait

　　lives in the rectangle that leads to the stalls. We call it

　　the motel lobby. Wise old campaigner， he dunks his

　　hay in the water bucket to soften it， then visits the others

　　who hang their heads over their dutch doors. Sometimes

　　he sprawls out flat to nap in his commodious quarters.

　　That spring， in the bustle of grooming

　　and riding and shoeing， I remember I let him go

　　to a neighbor I thought was a friend， and the following

　　fall she sold him down the river. I meant to

　　but never did go looking for him， to buy him back

　　and now my old guilt is flooding this twilit table

　　my guilt is ghosting the candles that pale us to skeletons

　　the ones we must all become in an as yet unspecified order.

　　Oh Jack， tethered in what rough stall alone

　　did you remember that one good winter?

　　有關世界著名英文詩歌篇4

　　Late Night Ode

　　by J. D. McClatchy

　　It's over， love. Look at me pushing fifty now，

　　Hair like grave-grass growing in both ears，

　　The piles and boggy prostate， the crooked penis，

　　The sour taste of each day's first lie，

　　And that recurrent dream of years ago pulling

　　A swaying bead-chain of moonlight，

　　Of slipping between the cool sheets of dark Along a body like my own， but blameless.

　　What good's my cut-glass conversation now，

　　Now I'm so effortlessly vulgar and sad?

　　You get from life what you can shake from it?

　　For me， it's g and t's all day and CNN.

　　Try the blond boychick lawyer， entry level

　　At eighty grand， who pouts about the overtime，

　　Keeps Evian and a beeper in his locker at the gym，

　　And hash in tinfoil under the office fern.

　　There's your hound from heaven， with buccaneer

　　Curls and perfumed war-paint on his nipples.

　　His answering machine always has room for one more Slurred， embarrassed call from you-know-who.

　　Some nights I've laughed so hard the tears Won't stop. Look at me now. Why now?

　　I long ago gave up pretending to believe Anyone's memory will give as good as it gets.

　　So why these stubborn tears? And why do I dream

　　Almost every night of holding you again，

　　Or at least of diving after you， my long-gone，

　　Through the bruised unbalanced waves?