長篇經典英文詩歌朗誦

　　文學是一種語言藝術,詩歌又歷來被視作文學的最高形式。學習英語詩歌不但有助於開闊視野,陶冶性情,而且對於英語學習有很大幫助。小編整理了長篇經典英文詩歌，歡迎閱讀!

　　長篇經典英文詩歌篇一

　　Charlotte Brontë in Leeds Point

　　by Stephen Dunn

　　From her window marshland stretched for miles.

　　If not for egrets and gulls， it reminded her of the moors

　　behind the parsonage， how the fog often hovered

　　and descended as if sheltering some sweet compulsion

　　the age was not ready to see. On clear days the jagged

　　skyline of Atlantic City was visible——Atlantic City，

　　where all compulsions had a home.

　　"Everything's too easy now，" she said to her neighbor，

　　"nothing resisted， nothing gained." Once， at eighteen，

　　she dreamed of London's proud salons glowing

　　with brilliant fires and dazzling chandeliers.

　　Already her own person——passionate， assertive——

　　soon she'd create a governess insistent on rights equal

　　to those above her rank. "The dangerous picture

　　of a natural heart，" one offended critic carped.

　　She'd failed， he said， to let religion reign

　　over the passions and， worse， she was a woman.

　　Now she was amazed at what women had，

　　doubly amazed at what they didn't.

　　But she hadn't come back to complain or haunt.

　　Her house on the bay was modest， adequate.

　　長篇經典英文詩歌篇二

　　The Present Writer

　　by Coner O'Callaghan

　　answers questions vaguely， as if from distance，

　　cares less for the dribs and drabs of his libido;

　　gets more droll， lachrymose， implicit with age;

　　has backed from the room， the turntable moving

　　and a refill pad lying open at the page

　　with 'swansong' and 'glockenspiel' written on it;

　　makes collect calls from payphones， lost for words;

　　has been known to sleep in the rear seat

　　on the hard shoulder， the hazards ticking;

　　is given to sudden floods of hope; still dreams

　　of swimming pools， in sepia; can take or leave

　　a life in shadow; will whoop out of the blue

　　and surface on the landing， fork and spoon in hand，

　　adrift of what the done thing was; doodles butterflies

　　on the envelopes of unread letters; travels happiest

　　towards daylight and fancies pigeons; gets a kick

　　inhabiting the third person， as if talking across himself

　　or forever clapping his own exits from the wings.

　　長篇經典英文詩歌篇三

　　The Potato

　　by Joseph Stroud

　　Three days into the journey

　　I lost the Inca Trail

　　and scrambled around the Andes

　　in a growing panic

　　when on a hillside below snowline

　　I met a farmer who pointed the way——

　　Machu Picchu allá， he said.

　　He knew where I wanted to go.

　　From my pack I pulled out an orange.

　　It seemed to catch fire

　　in that high blue Andean sky.

　　I gave it to him.

　　He had been digging in a garden，

　　turning up clumps of earth，

　　some odd， misshapen nuggets，

　　some potatoes.

　　He handed me one，

　　a potato the size of the orange

　　looking as if it had been in the ground

　　a hundred years，

　　a potato I carried with me

　　until at last I stood gazing down

　　on the Urubamba valley，

　　peaks rising out of the jungle into clouds，

　　and there among the mists

　　was the Temple of the Sun

　　and the Lost City of the Incas.

　　Looking back now， all these years later，

　　what I remember most，

　　what matters to me most，

　　was that farmer， alone on his hillside，

　　who gave me a potato，

　　a potato with its peasant face，

　　its lumps and lunar craters，

　　a potato that fit perfectly in my hand，

　　a potato that consoled me as I walked，

　　told me not to fear，

　　held me close to the earth，

　　the potato I put in a pot that night，

　　the potato I boiled above Machu Picchu，

　　the patient， gnarled potato

　　I ate.