晨讀經典英文詩歌

　　詩歌是一種主情的文學體裁,它以抒情方式高度凝練集中地反映社會生活,用豐富的想象,富有節奏感韻律美的語言和分行排列的形式來抒發思想情感。它是世界上最古老最基本的文學形式,是語言藝術最高的表現形式。下面是小編為大家帶來，希望大家喜歡!

　　：The Road to Avignon

　　A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,

　　Blown by the bright wind, debonair;

　　Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,

　　Above on the terrace a turret door

　　Frames a lady, listless and wan,

　　But fair for the eye to rest upon.

　　The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,

　　And looking up to the lady, sings: --

　　Down the road to Avignon,

　　The long, long road to Avignon,

　　Across the bridge to Avignon,

　　One morning in the spring.

　　The octagon tower casts a shade

　　Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;

　　In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,

　　The little green lizards run out and in.

　　A sail dips over the ocean's rim,

　　And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.

　　The minstrel touches his silver strings,

　　And gazing up to the lady, sings: --

　　Down the road to Avignon,

　　The long, long road to Avignon,

　　Across the bridge to Avignon,

　　One morning in the spring.

　　Slowly she walks to the balustrade,

　　Idly notes how the blossoms fade

　　In the sun's caress; then crosses where

　　The shadow shelters a carven chair.

　　Within its curve, supine she lies,

　　And wearily closes her tired eyes.

　　The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,

　　And holding the lady spellbound, sings: --

　　Down the road to Avignon,

　　The long, long road to Avignon,

　　Across the bridge to Avignon,

　　One morning in the spring.

　　Clouds sail over the distant trees,

　　Petals are shaken down by the breeze,

　　They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;

　　The sighing of waves sounds, far below.

　　A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose

　　Then laden with honey and love he goes.

　　The minstrel woos with his silver strings,

　　And climbing up to the lady, sings: --

　　Down the road to Avignon,

　　The long, long road to Avignon,

　　Across the bridge to Avignon,

　　One morning in the spring.

　　Step by step, and he comes to her,

　　Fearful lest she suddenly stir.

　　Sunshine and silence, and each to each,

　　The lute and his singing their only speech;

　　He leans above her, her eyes unclose,

　　The humming-bird enters another rose.

　　The minstrel hushes his silver strings.

　　Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings!

　　Down the road to Avignon,

　　The long, long road to Avignon,

　　Across the bridge to Avignon,

　　One morning in the spring.

　　： A Fairy Tale

　　On winter nights beside the nursery fire

　　We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals

　　Builded its pictures. There before our eyes

　　We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone

　　Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung

　　With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;

　　And all along the walls at intervals,

　　Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,

　　And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves

　　Divided where there peered a laughing face.

　　The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,

　　A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.

　　High pointed windows pierced the southern wall

　　Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires

　　To stain the tessellated marble floor

　　With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;

　　And in the shade beyond the further door,

　　Its sober squares of black and white were hid

　　Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob

　　Of lackeys and retainers come to view

　　The Christening.

　　A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng

　　About the entrance parted as the guests

　　Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.

　　Our eager fancies noted all they brought,

　　The glorious, unattainable delights!

　　But always there was one unbidden guest

　　Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.

　　The fire falls asunder, all is changed,

　　I am no more a child, and what I see

　　Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.

　　The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:

　　Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name

　　Which honors all who bear it, and the power

　　Of making words obedient. This is much;

　　But overshadowing all is still the curse,

　　That never shall I be fulfilled by love!

　　Along the parching highroad of the world

　　No other soul shall bear mine company.

　　Always shall I be teased with semblances,

　　With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile

　　Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy

　　Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering

　　Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.

　　So I behold my visions on the ground

　　No longer radiant, an ignoble heap

　　Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,

　　Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps

　　Force me forever through the passing days.