有關於經典英文詩歌朗誦

　　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。小編精心收集了有關於經典英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!

　　有關於經典英文詩歌篇1

　　Stealing The Scream

　　by Monica Youn

　　It was hardly a high-tech operation， stealing The Scream.

　　That we know for certain， and what was left behind——

　　a store-bought ladder， a broken window，

　　and fifty-one seconds of videotape， abstract as an overture.

　　And the rest? We don't know. But we can envision

　　moonlight coming in through the broken window，

　　casting a bright shape over everything——the paintings，

　　the floor tiles， the velvet ropes： a single， sharp-edged pattern;

　　the figure's fixed hysteria rendered suddenly ironic

　　by the fact of something happening; houses

　　clapping a thousand shingle hands to shocked cheeks

　　along the road from Oslo to Asgardstrand;

　　the guards rushing in——too late!——greeted only

　　by the gap-toothed smirk of the museum walls;

　　and dangling from the picture wire like a baited hook，

　　a postcard： "Thanks for the poor security."

　　The policemen， lost as tourists， stand whispering

　　in the galleries： ". . .but what does it all mean?"

　　Someone has the answers， someone who， grasping the frame，

　　saw his sun-red face reflected in that familiar boiling sky.

　　有關於經典英文詩歌篇2

　　Success Comes to Cow Creek

　　by James Tate

　　I sit on the tracks，

　　a hundred feet from

　　earth， fifty from the

　　water. Gerald is

　　inching toward me

　　as grim， slow， and

　　determined as a

　　season， because he

　　has no trade and wants

　　none. It's been nine months

　　since I last listened

　　to his fate， but I

　　know what he will say：

　　he's the fire hydrant

　　of the underdog.

　　When he reaches my

　　point above the creek，

　　he sits down without

　　salutation， and

　　spits profoundly out

　　past the edge， and peeks

　　for meaning in the

　　ripple it brings. He

　　scowls. He speaks： when you

　　walk down any street

　　you see nothing but

　　coagulations

　　of shit and vomit，

　　and I'm sick of it.

　　I suggest suicide;

　　he prefers murder，

　　and spits again for

　　the sake of all the

　　great devout losers.

　　A conductor's horn

　　concerto breaks the

　　air， and we， two doomed

　　pennies on the track，

　　shove off and somersault

　　like anesthetized

　　fleas， ruffling the

　　ideal locomotive

　　poised on the water

　　with our light， dry bodies.

　　Gerald shouts

　　terrifically as

　　he sails downstream like

　　a young man with a

　　destination. I

　　swim toward shore as

　　fast as my boots will

　　allow; as always，

　　neglecting to drown.

　　有關於經典英文詩歌篇3

　　Streetsby Naomi Shihab Nye

　　A man leaves the world

　　and the streets he lived on

　　grow a little shorter.

　　One more window dark

　　in this city， the figs on his branches

　　will soften for birds.

　　If we stand quietly enough evenings

　　there grows a whole company of us

　　standing quietly together.

　　overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees

　　and the sky which sews and sews， tirelessly sewing，

　　drops her purple hem.

　　Each thing in its time， in its place，

　　it would be nice to think the same about people.

　　Some people do. They sleep completely，

　　waking refreshed. Others live in two worlds，

　　the lost and remembered.

　　They sleep twice， once for the one who is gone，

　　once for themselves. They dream thickly，

　　dream double， they wake from a dream

　　into another one， they walk the short streets

　　calling out names， and then they answer.

　　有關於經典英文詩歌篇4

　　Stonemason

　　by James O'Hern

　　My stonemason John says

　　he uses Elberton granite from Georgia

　　It has the best grain and lasts the longest

　　How long is long I ask

　　Oh he says a thousand years

　　I want more than hard gray stone

　　to guard her silence

　　I want stone that stays alive

　　a megalith jammed deep into earth

　　an antenna to amplify the signals

　　emitted from her ash and bone

　　I went to Ireland

　　looking for the perfect stone

　　found stone cottages and monuments

　　mountains and fields of stone

　　continuous rows of stonewalls

　　wound round the island like an offering

　　I found stone carvings of mermaids

　　and ancient unnamed river gods

　　a Sheela-na-Gig I thought I recognized

　　having seen her name

　　on the walls of a cave in the Dordogne

　　along with her portrait cut and shaped

　　on the rounded surface of soft white stone

　　There are no stones

　　where my mother and I were born

　　only the jagged edges of memory

　　ground down by the desert molcajete

　　to caliche and polished round pebbles

　　leaving no trace of history

　　but an abandoned pulque farm

　　an adobe jail

　　and a dried up river bed