好聽的英文詩歌朗誦精選

　　英語詩歌同建築藝術一樣,也需要追求外在的視覺藝術和造型藝術,講究外部的象形、對稱、參差和魅力,所以詩歌語言也具有建築藝術美感。詩歌比其他任何文學樣式更接近建築藝術,更具有建築美。小編整理了好聽的英文詩歌，歡迎閱讀!

　　好聽的英文詩歌篇一

　　The Waltz We Were Born For

　　by Walt McDonald

　　I never knew them all， just hummed

　　and thrummed my fingers with the radio，

　　driving five hundred miles to Austin.

　　Her arms held all the songs I needed.

　　Our boots kept time with fiddles

　　and the charming sobs of blondes，

　　the whine of steel guitars

　　sliding us down in deer-hide chairs

　　when jukebox music was over.

　　Sad music's on my mind tonight

　　in a jet high over Dallas， earphones

　　on channel five. A lonely singer，

　　dead， comes back to beg me，

　　swearing in my ears she's mine，

　　rhymes set to music that make

　　her lies seem true. She's gone

　　and others like her， leaving their songs

　　to haunt us. Letting down through clouds

　　I know who I'll find waiting at the gate，

　　the same woman faithful to my arms

　　as she was those nights in Austin

　　when the world seemed like a jukebox，

　　our boots able to dance forever，

　　our pockets full of coins.

　　好聽的英文詩歌篇二

　　Cold Morning

　　by Eamon Grennan

　　Through an accidental crack in the curtain

　　I can see the eight o'clock light change from

　　charcoal to a faint gassy blue， inventing things

　　in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it

　　as the water tank has， so nothing flows， all is bone，

　　telling its tale of how hard the night had to be

　　for any heart caught out in it， just flesh and blood

　　no match for the mindless chill that's settled in，

　　a great stone bird， its wings stretched stiff

　　from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay， its gaze

　　glacial， its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped

　　on every window， its petrifying breath a cage

　　in which all the warmth we were is shivering.

　　好聽的英文詩歌篇三

　　Cockroaches: Ars Poetica

　　by Chad Davidson

　　They know that death is merely of the body

　　not the species， know that their putrid chitin

　　is always memorable. We call them ugly

　　with their blackened exoskeletons，

　　their wall-crawlings as we paw at them.

　　Extreme adaptability， we say.

　　And where there‘s one there’s probably a million

　　more who lie and laugh in cracks close by.

　　At first they seem so pitiful and base

　　feeding on what we leave behind. Content

　　to watch us watching them， their hidden grace

　　is endless procreation： it keeps them constant，

　　believing they‘ll live to read our requiem

　　with the godlike eyes we used to look at them.

　　好聽的英文詩歌篇四

　　The War Works Hard

　　by Dunya Mikhail ***Translated by Elizabeth Winslow***

　　How magnificent the war is!

　　How eager and efficient!

　　Early in the morning

　　it wakes up the sirens

　　and dispatches ambulances to various places

　　swings corpses through the air

　　rolls stretchers to the wounded

　　summons rain from the eyes of mothers

　　digs into the earth

　　dislodging many things

　　from under the ruins……

　　Some are lifeless and glistening

　　others are pale and still throbbing……

　　It produces the most questions

　　in the minds of children

　　entertains the gods

　　by shooting fireworks and missiles into the sky

　　sows mines in the fields

　　and reaps punctures and blisters

　　urges families to emigrate

　　stands beside the clergymen

　　as they curse the devil

　　***poor devil， he remains with one hand in the searing fire***……

　　The war continues working， day and night.

　　It inspires tyrants to deliver long speeches

　　awards medals to generals and themes to poets

　　it contributes to the industry of artificial limbs

　　provides food for flies

　　adds pages to the history books

　　achieves equality

　　between killer and killed

　　teaches lovers to write letters

　　accustoms young women to waiting

　　fills the newspapers with articles and pictures

　　builds new houses for the orphans

　　invigorates the coffin makers

　　gives grave diggers a pat on the back

　　and paints a smile on the leader's face.

　　It works with unparalleled diligence!

　　Yet no one gives it a word of praise.

　　好聽的英文詩歌篇五

　　Company of Moths

　　by Michael Palmer

　　We thought it could all be found in The Book of Poor Text，

　　the shadow the boat casts， angled mast， fretted wake， indigo eye.

　　Windows of the blind text，

　　keening， parabolic nights.

　　And the rolling sun， sun tumbling

　　into then under， company of moths.

　　Can you hear what I'm thinking， from there， even as you sleep?

　　Streets of the Poor Text， where a child's gaze falls

　　on the corpse of a horse beside a cart，

　　whimpering dog， woman's mute mouth agape

　　as if to say， We must move on，

　　we must not stop， we must not watch.

　　For after all， do the dead watch us?

　　To memorize precisely the tint of a plum，

　　curve of a body at rest ***sun again***，

　　the words to each popular song，

　　surely that would be enough.

　　For are you not familiar with these crows by the shore?

　　Did you not call them sea crows once?

　　Did we not discuss the meaning of "as the crow flies"

　　one day in that square - station of exile - under the reddest

　　of suns? And then， almost as one， we said， It's time.

　　And a plate shattered， a spoon fell to the floor，

　　towels in a heap by the door.

　　Drifts of cloud over

　　steeples from the west.

　　Faith in the Poor Text.

　　Outline of stuff left behind.