中長篇勵志英文詩歌

　　分享一些中長篇的英文勵志詩歌，一起來看看吧。下面是小編給大家整理的，供大家參閱!

　　：Morning Song

　　Sylvia Plath

　　Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

　　The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry

　　Took its place among the elements.

　　Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.

　　In a drafty museum, your nakedness

　　Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

　　I'm no more your mother

　　Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow

　　Effacement at the wind's hand.

　　All night your moth-breath

　　Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:

　　A far sea moves in my ear.

　　One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral

　　In my Victorian nightgown.

　　Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

　　Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try

　　Your handful of notes;

　　The clear vowels rise like balloons.

　　：From The Frontier Of Writing

　　The tightness and the nilness round that space

　　when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect

　　its make and number and, as one bends his face

　　towards your window, you catch sight of more

　　on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent

　　down cradled guns that hold you under cover

　　and everything is pure interrogation

　　until a rifle motions and you move

　　with guarded unconcerned acceleration--

　　a little emptier, a little spent

　　as always by that quiver in the self,

　　subjugated, yes, and obedient.

　　So you drive on to the frontier of writing

　　where it happens again. The guns on tripods;

　　the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

　　data about you, waiting for the squawk

　　of clearance; the marksman training down

　　out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

　　And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,

　　as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall

　　on the black current of a tarmac road

　　past armor-plated vehicles, out between

　　the posted soldiers flowing and receding

　　like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.

　　：Digging

　　Between my finger and my thumb

　　The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

　　Under my window a clean rasping sound

　　When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

　　My father, digging. I look down

　　Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

　　Bends low, comes up twenty years away

　　Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

　　Where he was digging.

　　The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

　　Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

　　He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

　　To scatter new potatoes that we picked

　　Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

　　By God, the old man could handle a spade,

　　Just like his old man.

　　My grandfather could cut more turf in a day

　　Than any other man on Toner's bog.

　　Once I carried him milk in a bottle

　　Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

　　To drink it, then fell to right away

　　Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

　　Over his shoulder, digging down and down

　　For the good turf. Digging.

　　The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap

　　Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

　　Through living roots awaken in my head.

　　But I've no spade to follow men like them.

　　Between my finger and my thumb

　　The squat pen rests.

　　I'll dig with it.