關於好的優秀英文詩歌

　　詩歌是人類的語言瑰寶,可以提高人的精神修養、藝術修養和語言修養。小編精心收集了，供大家欣賞學習!

　　篇1

　　The Wooden Trap

　　by Kevin Cantwell

　　The held cry of a hawk makes Thomas Hardy think

　　to make her believe it's a newborn's cry she hears.

　　Milk wets through her blouse. The other women know

　　at once. That's chapter one. How it starts

　　to grow while above his head the cumuli

　　accumulate. The August fields waver beyond

　　the privet hedge. He's given up the novel

　　for poetry. The women look at each other.

　　One counts out change on a plank counter.

　　That's that she says. Then exposition's drift

　　to flashback： How a horseshoe loosens;

　　how when leading the horse the master returns.

　　Not angry， only to get it done right.

　　How she presses under the eaves of the shed

　　with him while the afternoon rain comes down

　　so hard they are nearly soaked anyway.

　　The editorial omniscient bites his tongue.

　　Innocent as it goes. The scent of windfall

　　rises up through the apple tree from the ground.

　　Some of the leaves bronze even now. There's no

　　turning back but that's getting ahead of ourselves.

　　There's Hardy. Shoes a disgrace. Canvas gaiters

　　undone and one foot on top of the ladder

　　where it narrows at the highest rung， the worn wood

　　twice the width of a stirrup， and one foot

　　in the crotch of a limb. He has it all

　　worked out. She's in another country where rumor's made

　　a place for her. Where's the little one?

　　they ask， but she presses past them into the lane，

　　It serves her right but no one says it

　　so that she hears. A limb tumbles through the green

　　cloud of foliage. And then another. He cuts it back

　　to make it bear， though a neighbor's stopped to tell him

　　it's ill-advised so late in the season.

　　She finds a place for herself as a domestic

　　until the governor says a girl's come back.

　　They'll have to let her go. It's dusk. The clouds

　　go pink to shell. He folds the little saw.

　　The ladder widens to its base， A trick of perspective

　　also that lures the gopher into the wooden box

　　he's set in its tunnel， the hole which looks

　　like an exit， the end of the tunnel， daylight，

　　but smaller than its head and those footsteps

　　on the earth above， which pause and anticipate

　　her every turn， and block her escape

　　with a garden fork plunged into the lyric dark.

　　篇2

　　The Women Who Clean Fish

　　by Erica Funkhouser

　　The women who clean fish are all named Rose

　　or Grace. They wake up close to the water，

　　damp and dreamy beneath white sheets，

　　thinking of white beaches.

　　It is always humid where they work.

　　Under plastic aprons， their breasts

　　foam and bubble. They wear old clothes

　　because the smell will never go.

　　On the floor， chlorine.

　　On the window， dry streams left by gulls.

　　When tourists come to watch them

　　working over belts of cod and hake，

　　they don't look up.

　　They stand above the gutter. When the belt starts

　　they pack the bodies in， ten per box，

　　their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament.

　　The dead fish fall compliantly.

　　It is the iridescent scales that stick，

　　clinging to cheek and wrist，

　　lighting up hours later in a dark room.

　　The packers say they feel orange spawn

　　between their fingers， the smell of themselves

　　more like salt than peach.

　　篇3

　　The Woodspurge

　　by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

　　The wind flapped loose， the wind was still，

　　Shaken out dead from tree and hill：

　　I had walked on at the wind's will，

　　I sat now， for the wind was still.

　　Between my knees my forehead was，

　　My lips， drawn in， said not Alas!

　　My hair was over in the grass，

　　My naked ears heard the day pass.

　　My eyes， wide open， had the run

　　Of some ten weeds to fix upon;

　　Among those few， out of the sun，

　　The woodspurge flowered， three cups in one.

　　From perfect grief there need not be

　　Wisdom or even memory：

　　One thing then learnt remains to me，

　　The woodspurge has a cup of three.

　　篇4

　　The World

　　by George Herbert

　　Love built a stately house， where Fortune came，

　　And spinning fancies， she was heard to say

　　That her fine cobwebs did support the frame，

　　Whereas they were supported by the same;

　　But Wisdom quickly swept them all away.

　　The Pleasure came， who， liking not the fashion，

　　Began to make balconies， terraces，

　　Till she had weakened all by alteration;

　　But reverend laws， and many a proclomation

　　Reforméd all at length with menaces.

　　Then entered Sin， and with that sycamore

　　Whose leaves first sheltered man from drought and dew，

　　Working and winding slily evermore，

　　The inward walls and summers cleft and tore;

　　But Grace shored these， and cut that as it grew.

　　Then Sin combined with death in a firm band，

　　To raze the building to the very floor;

　　Which they effected，——none could them withstand;

　　But Love and Grace took Glory by the hand，

　　And built a braver palace than before.

　　篇5

　　The Writer

　　by Richard Wilbur

　　In her room at the prow of the house

　　Where light breaks， and the windows are tossed with linden，

　　My daughter is writing a story.

　　I pause in the stairwell， hearing

　　From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

　　Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

　　Young as she is， the stuff

　　Of her life is a great cargo， and some of it heavy：

　　I wish her a lucky passage.

　　But now it is she who pauses，

　　As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.

　　A stillness greatens， in which

　　The whole house seems to be thinking，

　　And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

　　Of strokes， and again is silent.

　　I remember the dazed starling

　　Which was trapped in that very room， two years ago;

　　How we stole in， lifted a sash

　　And retreated， not to affright it;

　　And how for a helpless hour， through the crack of the door，

　　We watched the sleek， wild， dark

　　And iridescent creature

　　Batter against the brilliance， drop like a glove

　　To the hard floor， or the desk-top，

　　And wait then， humped and bloody，

　　For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

　　Rose when， suddenly sure，

　　It lifted off from a chair-back，

　　Beating a smooth course for the right window

　　And clearing the sill of the world.

　　It is always a matter， my darling，

　　Of life or death， as I had forgotten. I wish

　　What I wished you before， but harder.