關於唯美英語詩歌精選

　　朗誦是一種傳統教學方式,是書面語言的有聲化,是語言教學的重點。在教學中教師應注重語音、語氣、速度、節奏、語調等技巧的訓練,鼓勵學生進行朗誦實踐,培養學生的朗誦能力。下面是小編帶來的關於唯美英語詩歌，歡迎閱讀!

　　關於唯美英語詩歌篇一

　　My Mojave

　　by Donald Revell

　　Sha-

　　Dow，

　　As of

　　A meteor

　　At mid-

　　Day： it goes

　　From there.

　　A perfect circle falls

　　Onto white imperfections.

　　***Consider the black road，

　　How it seems white the entire

　　Length of a sunshine day.***

　　Or I could say

　　Shadows and mirage

　　Compensate the world，

　　Completing its changes

　　With no change.

　　In the morning after a storm，

　　We used brooms. Out front，

　　There was broken glass to collect.

　　In the backyard， the sand

　　Was covered with transparent wings.

　　The insects could not use them in the wind

　　And so abandoned them. Why

　　Hadn't the wings scattered? Why

　　Did they lie so stilly where they'd dropped?

　　It can only be the wind passed through them.

　　Jealous lover，

　　Your desire

　　Passes the same way.

　　And jealous earth，

　　There is a shadow you cannot keep

　　To yourself alone.

　　At midday，

　　My soul wants only to go

　　The black road which is the white road.

　　I'm not needed

　　Like wings in a storm，

　　And God is the storm.

　　關於唯美英語詩歌篇二

　　My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer

　　by Mark Strand

　　1

　　When the moon appears

　　and a few wind-stricken barns stand out

　　in the low-domed hills

　　and shine with a light

　　that is veiled and dust-filled

　　and that floats upon the fields，

　　my mother， with her hair in a bun，

　　her face in shadow， and the smoke

　　from her cigarette coiling close

　　to the faint yellow sheen of her dress，

　　stands near the house

　　and watches the seepage of late light

　　down through the sedges，

　　the last gray islands of cloud

　　taken from view， and the wind

　　ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat

　　on the black bay.

　　2

　　Soon the house， with its shades drawn closed， will send

　　small carpets of lampglow

　　into the haze and the bay

　　will begin its loud heaving

　　and the pines， frayed finials

　　climbing the hill， will seem to graze

　　the dim cinders of heaven.

　　And my mother will stare into the starlanes，

　　the endless tunnels of nothing，

　　and as she gazes，

　　under the hour's spell，

　　she will think how we yield each night

　　to the soundless storms of decay

　　that tear at the folding flesh，

　　and she will not know

　　why she is here

　　or what she is prisoner of

　　if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.

　　3

　　My mother will go indoors

　　and the fields， the bare stones

　　will drift in peace， small creatures ——

　　the mouse and the swift —— will sleep

　　at opposite ends of the house.

　　Only the cricket will be up，

　　repeating its one shrill note

　　to the rotten boards of the porch，

　　to the rusted screens， to the air， to the rimless dark，

　　to the sea that keeps to itself.

　　Why should my mother awake?

　　The earth is not yet a garden

　　about to be turned. The stars

　　are not yet bells that ring

　　at night for the lost.

　　It is much too late.

　　關於唯美英語詩歌篇三

　　La Coursierde Jeanne

　　by Linda McCarriston

　　You know that they burned her horse

　　before her. Though it is not recorded，

　　you know that they burned her Percheron

　　first， before her eyes， because you

　　know that story， so old that story，

　　the routine story， carried to its

　　extreme， of the cruelty that can make

　　of what a woman hears a silence，

　　that can make of what a woman sees

　　a lie. She had no son for them to burn，

　　for them to take from her in the world

　　not of her making and put to its pyre，

　　so they layered a greater one in front of

　　where she was staked to her own——

　　as you have seen her pictured sometimes，

　　her eyes raised to the sky. But they were

　　not raised. This is yet one of their lies.

　　They were not closed. Though her hands

　　were bound behind her， and her feet were

　　bound deep in what would become fire，

　　she watched. Of greenwood stakes

　　head-high and thicker than a man's waist

　　they laced the narrow corral that would not

　　burn until flesh had burned， until

　　bone was burning， and laid it thick

　　with tinder——fatted wicks and sulphur，

　　kindling and logs——and ran a ramp

　　up to its height from where the gray horse

　　waited， his dapples making of his flesh

　　a living metal， layers of life

　　through which the light shone out

　　in places as it seems to through the flesh

　　of certain fish， a light she knew

　　as purest， coming， like that， from within.

　　Not flinching， not praying， she looked

　　the last time on the body she knew

　　better than the flesh of any man， or child，

　　or woman， having long since left the lap

　　of her mother——the chest with its

　　perfect plates of muscle， the neck

　　with its perfect， prow-like curve，

　　the hindquarters'——pistons——powerful cleft

　　pennoned with the silk of his tail.

　　Having ridden as they did together

　　——those places， that hard， that long——

　　their eyes found easiest that day

　　the way to each other， their bodies

　　wedded in a sacrament unmediated

　　by man. With fire they drove him

　　up the ramp and off into the pyre

　　and tossed the flame in with him.

　　This was the last chance they gave her

　　to recant her world， in which their power

　　came not from God. Unmoved， the Men

　　of God began watching him burn， and better，

　　watching her watch him burn， hearing

　　the long mad godlike trumpet of his terror，

　　his crashing in the wood， the groan

　　of stakes that held， the silverblack hide，

　　the pricked ears catching first

　　like driest bark， and the eyes.

　　and she knew， by this agony， that she

　　might choose to live still， if she would

　　but make her sign on the parchment

　　they would lay before her， which now

　　would include this new truth： that it

　　did not happen， this death in the circle，

　　the rearing， plunging， raging， the splendid

　　armour-colored head raised one last time

　　above the flames before they took him

　　——like any game untended on the spit——into

　　their yellow-green， their blackening red.

　　關於唯美英語詩歌篇四

　　My Mother Would Bea Falconress

　　My mother would be a falconress，

　　And I， her gay falcon treading her wrist，

　　would fly to bring back

　　from the blue of the sky to her， bleeding， a prize，

　　where I dream in my little hood with many bells

　　jangling when I'd turn my head.

　　My mother would be a falconress，

　　and she sends me as far as her will goes.

　　She lets me ride to the end of her curb

　　where I fall back in anguish.

　　I dread that she will cast me away，

　　for I fall， I mis-take， I fail in her mission.

　　She would bring down the little birds.

　　And I would bring down the little birds.

　　When will she let me bring down the little birds，

　　pierced from their flight with their necks broken，

　　their heads like flowers limp from the stem?

　　I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood.

　　Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded.

　　I have gone back into my hooded silence，

　　talking to myself and dropping off to sleep.

　　For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me，

　　sewn round with bells， jangling when I move.

　　She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist.

　　She uses a barb that brings me to cower.

　　She sends me abroad to try my wings

　　and I come back to her. I would bring down

　　the little birds to her

　　I may not tear into， I must bring back perfectly.

　　I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood，

　　and her eye holds me， anguisht， terrifying.

　　She draws a limit to my flight.

　　Never beyond my sight， she says.

　　She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching.

　　She rewards me with meat for my dinner.

　　But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her.

　　Yet it would have been beautiful， if she would have carried me，

　　always， in a little hood with the bells ringing，

　　at her wrist， and her riding

　　to the great falcon hunt， and me

　　flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart

　　to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet，

　　straining， and then released for the flight.

　　My mother would be a falconress，

　　and I her gerfalcon raised at her will，

　　from her wrist sent flying， as if I were her own

　　pride， as if her pride

　　knew no limits， as if her mind

　　sought in me flight beyond the horizon.

　　Ah， but high， high in the air I flew.

　　And far， far beyond the curb of her will，

　　were the blue hills where the falcons nest.

　　And then I saw west to the dying sun——

　　it seemd my human soul went down in flames.

　　I tore at her wrist， at the hold she had for me，

　　until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out，

　　far， far beyond the curb of her will

　　to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where

　　the falcons nest

　　I saw， and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak.

　　I flew， as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight，

　　sent from my striking loose， from the cruel strike at her wrist，

　　striking out from the blood to be free of her.

　　My mother would be a falconress，

　　and even now， years after this，

　　when the wounds I left her had surely heald，

　　and the woman is dead，

　　her fierce eyes closed， and if her heart

　　were broken， it is stilld

　　I would be a falcon and go free.

　　I tread her wrist and wear the hood，

　　talking to myself， and would draw blood.