動人的英文詩歌

　　英語詩歌是英語語言的瑰寶,是學習英語語言必要的媒介材料。它有助於培養英語學習興趣,提高學生的審美情趣,因而在切實可行的操作下,能夠推進大學英語素質教育。下面是小編帶來的優美，歡迎閱讀!

　　優美篇一

　　Deaths Of Flowers

　　E J Scovell ***1907 - 1999***

　　I would if I could choose

　　Age and die outwards as a tulip does;

　　Not as this iris drawing in, in-coiling

　　Its complex strange taut inflorescence, willing

　　Itself a bud again - though all achieved is

　　No more than a clenched sadness,

　　The tears of gum not flowing.

　　I would choose the tulip’s reckless way of going;

　　Whose petals answer light, altering by fractions

　　From closed to wide, from one through many perfections,

　　Till wrecked, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall,

　　Like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall.

　　優美篇二

　　The Garden

　　Andrew Marvell ***1621 - 1678***

　　How vainly men themselves amaze

　　To win the palm, the oak, or bays,

　　And their uncessant labours see

　　Crowned from some single herb or tree,

　　Whose short and narrow vergèd shade

　　Does prudently their toils upbraid,

　　While all flow’rs and all trees do close

　　To weave the garlands of repose.

　　Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,

　　And Innocence, thy sister dear!

　　Mistaken long, I sought you then

　　In busy companies of men.

　　Your sacred plants, if here below,

　　Only among the plants will grow.

　　Society is all but rude,

　　To this delicious solitude.

　　No white nor red was ever seen

　　So am’rous as this lovely green.

　　Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,

　　Cut in these trees their mistress’ name.

　　Little, alas, they know, or heed,

　　How far these beauties hers exceed!

　　Fair trees! Wheres’e’er your barks I wound,

　　No name shall but your own be found.

　　When we have run our passion’s heat,

　　Love hither makes his best retreat.

　　The gods, that mortal beauty chase,

　　Still in a tree did end their race.

　　Apollo hunted Daphne so,

　　Only that she might laurel grow.

　　And Pan did after Syrinx speed,

　　Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

　　What wondrous life is this I lead!

　　Ripe apples drop about my head;

　　The luscious clusters of the vine

　　Upon my mouth do crush their wine;

　　The nectarene, and curious peach,

　　Into my hands themselves do reach;

　　Stumbling on melons, as I pass,

　　Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

　　Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,

　　Withdraws into its happiness:

　　The mind, that ocean where each kind

　　Does straight its own resemblance find,

　　Yet it creates, transcending these,

　　Far other worlds, and other seas,

　　Annihilating all that’s made

　　To a green thought in a green shade.

　　Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,

　　Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,

　　Casting the body’s vest aside,

　　My soul into the boughs does glide:

　　There like a bird it sits, and sings,

　　Then whets, and combs its silver wings;

　　And, till prepared for longer flight,

　　Waves in its plumes the various light.

　　Such was the happy garden-state,

　　While man there walked without a mate:

　　After a place so pure, and sweet,

　　What other help could yet be meet!

　　But ‘twas beyond a mortal’s share

　　To wander solitary there:

　　Two paradises ‘twere in one

　　To live in paradise alone.

　　How well the skilful gardener drew

　　Of flowers and herbs this dial new,

　　Where from above the milder sun

　　Does through a fragrant zodiac run;

　　And, as it works, the industrious bee

　　Computes its time as well as we.

　　How could such sweet and whilesome hours

　　Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!

　　優美篇三

　　The Darkling Thrush

　　Thomas Hardy ***1840-1928***

　　I leant upon a coppice gate

　　When Frost was spectre-gray,

　　And Winter’s dregs made desolate

　　The weakening eye of day.

　　The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

　　Like strings of broken lyres,

　　And all mankind that haunted nigh

　　Had sought their household fires.

　　The land’s sharp features seemed to be

　　The Century’s corpse outleant,

　　His crypt the cloudy canopy,

　　The wind his death-lament.

　　The ancient pulse of germ and birth

　　Was shrunken hard and dry,

　　And every spirit upon earth

　　Seemed fervourless as I.

　　At once a voice arose among

　　The bleak twigs overhead

　　In a full-hearted evensong

　　Of joy illimited;

　　An agèd thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

　　In blast-beruffled plume,

　　Had chosen thus to fling his soul

　　Upon the growing gloom.

　　So little cause for carolings

　　Of such ecstatic sound

　　Was written on terrestrial things

　　Afar or nigh around,

　　That I could think there trembled through

　　His happy good-night air

　　Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew

　　And I was unaware.