好朗誦的長篇英文詩歌

　　英語詩歌是英語語言與文學的精華。開展英語詩歌教學能提高學生英語語言基礎知識水平、寫作水平,有助於學生西方歷史文化的學習,提高學生的想象力,也有助於對學生的道德教育。小編整理了，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇一

　　The Unknown Citizen

　　by W. H. Auden

　　He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be

　　One against whom there was no official complaint，

　　And all the reports on his conduct agree

　　That， in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word， he was a saint，

　　For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.

　　Except for the War till the day he retired

　　He worked in a factory and never got fired，

　　But satisfied his employers， Fudge Motors Inc.

　　Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views，

　　For his Union reports that he paid his dues，

　　***Our report on his Union shows it was sound***

　　And our Social Psychology workers found

　　That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.

　　The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day

　　And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.

　　Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured，

　　And his Health-card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured.

　　Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare

　　He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan

　　And had everything necessary to the Modern Man，

　　A phonograph， a radio， a car and a frigidaire.

　　Our researchers into Public Opinion are content

　　That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;

　　When there was peace， he was for peace： when there was war， he went.

　　He was married and added five children to the population，

　　Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.

　　And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.

　　Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd：

　　Had anything been wrong， we should certainly have heard.

　　篇二

　　City That Does Not Sleep

　　by Federico García Lorca

　　Translated by Robert Bly

　　In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody， nobody.

　　Nobody is asleep.

　　The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.

　　The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream，

　　and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the

　　street corner

　　the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the

　　stars.

　　Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody， nobody.

　　Nobody is asleep.

　　In a graveyard far off there is a corpse

　　who has moaned for three years

　　because of a dry countryside on his knee;

　　and that boy they buried this morning cried so much

　　it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

　　Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!

　　We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth

　　or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead

　　dahlias.

　　But forgetfulness does not exist， dreams do not exist;

　　flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths

　　in a thicket of new veins，

　　and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever

　　and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

　　One day

　　the horses will live in the saloons

　　and the enraged ants

　　will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the

　　eyes of cows.

　　Another day

　　we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead

　　and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats

　　we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.

　　Careful! Be careful! Be careful!

　　The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm，

　　and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention

　　of the bridge，

　　or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe，

　　we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes

　　are waiting，

　　where the bear's teeth are waiting，

　　where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting，

　　and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

　　Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody， nobody.

　　Nobody is sleeping.

　　If someone does close his eyes，

　　a whip， boys， a whip!

　　Let there be a landscape of open eyes

　　and bitter wounds on fire.

　　No one is sleeping in this world. No one， no one.

　　I have said it before.

　　No one is sleeping.

　　But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the

　　night，

　　open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight

　　the lying goblets， and the poison， and the skull of the theaters.

　　篇三

　　Cicada

　　by John Blair

　　A youngest brother turns seventeen with a click as good as a roar，

　　finds the door and is gone.

　　You listen for that small sound， hear a memory.

　　The air-raid sirens howled of summer tornadoes， the sound

　　thrown back against the scattered thumbs

　　of grain silos and the open Oklahoma plains

　　like the warning wail of insects.

　　Repudiation is fast like a whirlwind.

　　Only children don't know that all you live is leaving.

　　Yes， the first knowledge that counts is that everything stops.

　　Even in the bible-belt， second comings are promises

　　you never really believed;

　　so you turn and walk into the embrace of the world

　　as you would to a woman， an arrant

　　an orphic movement as shocking as the subtle

　　animal pulse of a flower opening， palm up.

　　We are all so helpless.

　　I can look at my wife's full form now

　　and hope for children，

　　picture her figured by the weight of babies.

　　Only， it's still so much like trying to find something

　　once lost. My brother felt the fullness of his years， the pull

　　in the gut that's almost sickness. His white

　　smooth face is gone into living and fierce illusion，

　　a journey dissolute and as immutable

　　as the whining heat of summer.

　　Soon enough， too soon， momentum just isn't enough.

　　Our tragedy is to live in a world

　　that doesn't invite us back.

　　We slow， find ourselves sitting in a room that shifts so slightly

　　we can only imagine the difference.

　　I want to tell him to listen.

　　I want to tell him what it is to crave darkness，

　　to want to crawl headfirst into a dirt-warm womb

　　to sleep， to wait seventeen years，

　　to emerge again.