大學長篇英文詩歌閱讀

　　詩歌是一個國家語言的濃縮 ,它以最凝鍊的文字傳遞了時間與空間、物質與精神、理智與情感 ,其中的文化因素是理解和欣賞詩歌的關鍵。下面是小編帶來的，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇一

　　A Psalm of Life 人生禮頌

　　Herry Wadsworth Longfellow / 享利.沃茲渥斯.朗費羅

　　Tell me not in mournful numbers,

　　請別用哀傷的詩句對我講;

　　Life is but an empty dream!

　　人生呵，無非是虛夢一場!

　　For the soul is dead that slumbers,

　　因為沉睡的靈魂如死一般，

　　And things are not what they seem.

　　事物的表裡並不一樣。

　　Life is real! Life is earnest!

　　人生是實在的!人生是熱烈的!

　　And the grave is not its goal;

　　人生的目標決不是墳墓;

　　Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

　　你是塵土，應歸於塵土。

　　Was not spoken of the soul.

　　此話指的並不是我們的精神。

　　Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

　　我們的歸宿並不是快樂，

　　Is our destined and our way;

　　也不是悲傷，

　　But to act,

　　實幹

　　That much to-morrow.

　　才是我們的道路，

　　Find us farther than to-day.

　　每天不斷前進，蒸蒸蒸日上。

　　Art is long, and time is fleeting.

　　光陰易逝，而藝海無涯，

　　And our hearts, though stout and brave.

　　我們的心哪——雖然勇敢堅強，

　　Still, like muffled drums, are beating

　　卻像被布矇住的銅鼓，

　　Funeral marches to the grave。

　　常把殯葬的哀樂擂響。

　　In the world’s broad field of battle,

　　在這人生的宿營地，

　　In the bivouac of Life,

　　在這遼闊的世界戰場，

　　Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

　　別做無言的牲畜任人驅趕，

　　Be a hero in the strife!

　　做一名英雄漢立馬橫槍!

　　Trust no future. howe’er pleasant!

　　別相信未來，哪怕未來多麼歡樂!

　　Let the dead Past bury its dead!

　　讓死去的往昔將死亡一切埋葬!

　　Act, act in the living Present!

　　上帝在上，我們胸懷勇氣，

　　Let us, then, be up and doing,

　　讓我們起來幹吧，

　　With a heart for any fate;

　　下定決心，不管遭遇怎樣;

　　Still achieving, still pursuing

　　不斷勝利，不斷追求，

　　Learn to labour and to wait.

　　要學會苦幹和耐心等待

　　篇二

　　Churning Day

　　Seamus Heaney

　　A thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast,

　　hardened gradually on top of the four crocks

　　that stood, large pottery bombs, in the small pantry.

　　After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder,

　　cool porous earthenware fermented the butter milk

　　for churning day, when the hooped churn was scoured

　　with plumping kettles and the busy scrubber

　　echoed daintily on the seasoned wood.

　　It stood then, purified, on the flagged kitchen floor.

　　Out came the four crocks, spilled their heavy lip

　　of cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn.

　　The staff, like a great whiskey muddler fashioned

　　in deal wood, was plunged in, the lid fitted.

　　My mother took first turn, set up rhythms

　　that, slugged and thumped for hours. Arms ached.

　　Hands blistered. Cheeks and clothes were spattered

　　with flabby milk.

　　Where finally gold flecks

　　began to dance. They poured hot water then,

　　sterilized a birchwood bowl

　　and little corrugated butter-spades.

　　Their short stroke quickened, suddenly

　　a yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white,

　　heavy and rich, coagulated sunlight

　　that they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer,

　　heaped up like gilded gravel in the bowl.

　　The house would stink long after churning day,

　　acrid as a sulphur mine. The empty crocks

　　were ranged along the wall again, the butter

　　in soft printed slabs was piled on pantry shelves.

　　And in the house we moved with gravid ease,

　　our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns,

　　the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk,

　　the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.

　　篇三

　　For the Union Dead-Robert Lowell

　　"Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam."

　　The old South Boston Aquarium stands

　　In a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.

　　The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.

　　The airy tanks are dry.

　　Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;

　　my hand tingled

　　to burst the bubbles

　　drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.

　　My hand draws back. I often sigh still

　　for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom

　　of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,

　　I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized

　　fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,

　　yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting

　　as they cropped up tons of mush and grass

　　to gouge their underworld garage.

　　Parking spaces luxuriate like civic

　　sandpiles in the heart of Boston.

　　A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders

　　braces the tingling Statehouse,

　　shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw

　　and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry

　　on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,

　　propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.

　　Two months after marching through Boston,

　　half the regiment was dead;

　　at the dedication,

　　William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.

　　Their monument sticks like a fishbone

　　in the city's throat.

　　Its Colonel is as lean

　　as a compass-needle.

　　He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,

　　a greyhound's gentle tautness;

　　he seems to wince at pleasure,

　　and suffocate for privacy.

　　He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely,

　　peculiar power to choose life and die -

　　when he leads his black soldiers to death,

　　he cannot bend his back.

　　On a thousand small town New England greens,

　　the old white churches hold their air

　　of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags

　　quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.

　　The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier

　　grow slimmer and younger each year -

　　wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets

　　and muse through their sideburns...

　　Shaw's father wanted no monument

　　except the ditch,

　　where his son's body was thrown

　　and lost with his "niggers."

　　The ditch is nearer.

　　There are no statues for the last war here;

　　on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph

　　shows Hiroshima boiling

　　over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"

　　that survived the blast. Space is nearer.

　　When I crouch to my television set,

　　the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.

　　Colonel Shaw

　　is riding on his bubble,

　　he waits

　　for the blessèd break.

　　The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,

　　giant finned cars nose forward like fish;

　　a savage servility

　　slides by on grease.