經典的英文詩詞朗誦稿

　　英語詩歌能激發學生學習興趣,調動學生英語學習的積極性,增強英語教學的趣味性,提高學習效率,調節學習和生活氛圍音樂世界的通用語言。下面是小編帶來的，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇一

　　Amy Lowell - Stravinsky’s Three Pieces

　　First Movement

　　Thin-voiced, nasal pipes

　　Drawing sound out and out

　　Until it is a screeching thread,

　　Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,

　　It hurts.

　　Whee-e-e!

　　Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!

　　There are drums here,

　　Banging,

　　And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones

　　Of the market-place.

　　Whee-e-e!

　　Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,

　　And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones;

　　Clumsy and hard they are,

　　And uneven,

　　Losing half a beat

　　Because the stones are slippery.

　　Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!

　　The thin Spring leaves

　　Shake to the banging of shoes.

　　Shoes beat, slap,

　　Shuffle, rap,

　　And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,

　　Little pigs' voices

　　Weaving among the dancers,

　　A fine white thread

　　Linking up the dancers.

　　Bang! Bump! Tong!

　　Petticoats,

　　Stockings,

　　Sabots,

　　Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;

　　Red, blue, yellow,

　　Drunkenness steaming in colours;

　　Red, yellow, blue,

　　Colours and flesh weaving together,

　　In and out, with the dance,

　　Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.

　　Pigs' cries white and tenuous,

　　White and painful,

　　White and --

　　Bump!

　　Tong!

　　Second Movement

　　Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,

　　A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,

　　Cherry petals fall and flutter,

　　And the white Pierrot,

　　Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,

　　Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,

　　Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth

　　With his finger-nails.

　　Third Movement

　　An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,

　　It wheezes and coughs.

　　The nave is blue with incense,

　　Writhing, twisting,

　　Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.

　　`Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine';

　　The priests whine their bastard Latin

　　And the censers swing and click.

　　The priests walk endlessly

　　Round and round,

　　Droning their Latin

　　Off the key.

　　The organ crashes out in a flaring chord,

　　And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.

　　`Dies illa, dies irae,

　　Calamitatis et miseriae,

　　Dies magna et amara valde.'

　　A wind rattles the leaded windows.

　　The little pear-shaped candle flames leap and flutter,

　　`Dies illa, dies irae;'

　　The swaying smoke drifts over the altar,

　　`Calamitatis et miseriae;'

　　The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water,

　　`Dies magna et amara valde;'

　　And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them

　　Stretched upon a bier.

　　His ears are stone to the organ,

　　His eyes are flint to the candles,

　　His body is ice to the water.

　　Chant, priests,

　　Whine, shuffle, genuflect,

　　He will always be as rigid as he is now

　　Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.

　　`Lacrymosa dies illa,

　　Qua resurget ex favilla

　　Judicandus homo reus.'

　　Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness.

　　篇二

　　Amy Lowell - Patterns

　　I walk down the garden paths,

　　And all the daffodils

　　Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.

　　I walk down the patterned garden-paths

　　In my stiff, brocaded gown.

　　With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,

　　I too am a rare

　　Pattern. As I wander down

　　The garden paths.

　　My dress is richly figured,

　　And the train

　　Makes a pink and silver stain

　　On the gravel, and the thrift

　　Of the borders.

　　Just a plate of current fashion,

　　Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.

　　Not a softness anywhere about me,

　　Only whalebone and brocade.

　　And I sink on a seat in the shade

　　Of a lime tree. For my passion

　　Wars against the stiff brocade.

　　The daffodils and squills

　　Flutter in the breeze

　　As they please.

　　And I weep;

　　For the lime-tree is in blossom

　　And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

　　And the plashing of waterdrops

　　In the marble fountain

　　Comes down the garden-paths.

　　The dripping never stops.

　　Underneath my stiffened gown

　　Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,

　　A basin in the midst of hedges grown

　　So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,

　　But she guesses he is near,

　　And the sliding of the water

　　Seems the stroking of a dear

　　Hand upon her.

　　What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!

　　I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

　　All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

　　I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the

　　paths,

　　And he would stumble after,

　　Bewildered by my laughter.

　　I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles

　　on his shoes.

　　I would choose

　　To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,

　　A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,

　　Till he caught me in the shade,

　　And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,

　　Aching, melting, unafraid.

　　With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,

　　And the plopping of the waterdrops,

　　All about us in the open afternoon 

　　I am very like to swoon

　　With the weight of this brocade,

　　For the sun sifts through the shade.

　　Underneath the fallen blossom

　　In my bosom,

　　Is a letter I have hid.

　　It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.

　　"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell

　　Died in action Thursday se'nnight."

　　As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,

　　The letters squirmed like snakes.

　　"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.

　　"No," I told him.

　　"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.

　　No, no answer."

　　And I walked into the garden,

　　Up and down the patterned paths,

　　In my stiff, correct brocade.

　　The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,

　　Each one.

　　I stood upright too,

　　Held rigid to the pattern

　　By the stiffness of my gown.

　　Up and down I walked,

　　Up and down.

　　In a month he would have been my husband.

　　In a month, here, underneath this lime,

　　We would have broke the pattern;

　　He for me, and I for him,

　　He as Colonel, I as Lady,

　　On this shady seat.

　　He had a whim

　　That sunlight carried blessing.

　　And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."

　　Now he is dead.

　　In Summer and in Winter I shall walk

　　Up and down

　　The patterned garden-paths

　　In my stiff, brocaded gown.

　　The squills and daffodils

　　Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.

　　I shall go

　　Up and down,

　　In my gown.

　　Gorgeously arrayed,

　　Boned and stayed.

　　And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace

　　By each button, hook, and lace.

　　For the man who should loose me is dead,

　　Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,

　　In a pattern called a war.

　　Christ! What are patterns for?

　　篇三

　　朗費羅聖誕作詩《聖誕鐘聲》

　　Christmas Bells

　　by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

　　I heard the bells on Christmas Day

　　Their old familiar carols play,

　　And wild and sweet

　　The words repeat

　　Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

　　And thought how, as the day had come,

　　The belfries of all Christendom

　　Had rolled along

　　The unbroken song

　　Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

　　Till, ringing, singing on its way,

　　The world revolved from night to day,

　　A voice, a chime

　　A chant sublime

　　Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

　　Then from each black accursed mouth

　　The cannon thundered in the South,

　　And with the sound

　　The carols drowned

　　Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

　　It was as if an earthquake rent

　　The hearth-stones of a continent,

　　And made forlorn

　　The households born

　　Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

　　And in despair I bowed my head;

　　"There is no peace on earth," I said;

　　"For hate is strong,

　　And mocks the song

　　Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

　　Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

　　"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

　　The Wrong shall fail,

　　The Right prevail,

　　With peace on earth, good-will to men!"