關於好的英文詩詞閱讀

　　英語詩歌的特點和其他語言詩歌的特點一樣,都是形象的語言和富於音樂性的語言。小編精心收集了關於好的英文詩詞，供大家欣賞學習!

　　關於好的英文詩詞篇1

　　The Weary Blues

　　by Langston Hughes

　　Droning a drowsy syncopated tune，

　　Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon，

　　I heard a Negro play.

　　Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

　　By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

　　He did a lazy sway . . .

　　He did a lazy sway . . .

　　To the tune o' those Weary Blues.

　　With his ebony hands on each ivory key

　　He made that poor piano moan with melody.

　　O Blues!

　　Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

　　He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

　　Sweet Blues!

　　Coming from a black man's soul.

　　O Blues!

　　In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

　　I heard that Negro sing， that old piano moan——

　　"Ain't got nobody in all this world，

　　Ain't got nobody but ma self.

　　I's gwine to quit ma frownin'

　　And put ma troubles on the shelf."

　　Thump， thump， thump， went his foot on the floor.

　　He played a few chords then he sang some more——

　　"I got the Weary Blues

　　And I can't be satisfied.

　　Got the Weary Blues

　　And can't be satisfied——

　　I ain't happy no mo'

　　And I wish that I had died."

　　And far into the night he crooned that tune.

　　The stars went out and so did the moon.

　　The singer stopped playing and went to bed

　　While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

　　He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

　　關於好的英文詩詞篇2

　　The White Room

　　by Charles Simic

　　The obvious is difficult

　　To prove. Many prefer

　　The hidden. I did， too.

　　I listened to the trees.

　　They had a secret

　　Which they were about to

　　Make known to me——

　　And then didn't.

　　Summer came. Each tree

　　On my street had its own

　　Scheherazade. My nights

　　Were a part of their wild

　　Storytelling. We were

　　Entering dark houses，

　　Always more dark houses，

　　Hushed and abandoned.

　　There was someone with eyes closed

　　On the upper floors.

　　The fear of it， and the wonder，

　　Kept me sleepless.

　　The truth is bald and cold，

　　Said the woman

　　Who always wore white.

　　She didn't leave her room.

　　The sun pointed to one or two

　　Things that had survived

　　The long night intact.

　　The simplest things，

　　Difficult in their obviousness.

　　They made no noise.

　　It was the kind of day

　　People described as "perfect."

　　Gods disguising themselves

　　As black hairpins， a hand-mirror，

　　A comb with a tooth missing?

　　No! That wasn't it.

　　Just things as they are，

　　Unblinking， lying mute

　　In that bright light——

　　And the trees waiting for the night.

　　關於好的英文詩詞篇3

　　Continued

　　by Piotr Sommer

　　Nothing will be the same as it was，

　　even enjoying the same things

　　won't be the same. Our sorrows

　　will differ one from the other and we

　　will differ one from the other in our worries.

　　And nothing will be the same as it was，

　　nothing at all. Simple thoughts will sound

　　different， newer， since they'll be more simply， more newly

　　spoken. The heart will know how to open up and love

　　won't be love anymore. Everything will change.

　　Nothing will be the same as it was

　　and that too will be new somehow， since after all，

　　before， things could be similar： morning，

　　the rest of the day， evening and night， but not now.

　　關於好的英文詩詞篇4

　　Constellations

　　by Steven Heighton

　　After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser

　　and peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped

　　gable-wall， dimming the night vault of her ceiling

　　like a haze or the interfering glow

　　of a great city， small hands anticipating

　　eons as they raided the playful patterns

　　her father had mapped for her - black holes now

　　where the raised thumb-stubs and ears of the Bat

　　had been， the feet of the Turtle， wakeful

　　eyes of the Mourning Dove. She stuck those paper

　　stars on herself. One on each foot， the backs

　　of her hands， navel， tip of nose and so on，

　　then turned on the lamp by her bed and stood close

　　like a child chilled after a winter bath

　　pressed up to an air duct or a radiator

　　until those paper stars absorbed more light

　　than they could hold. Then turned off the lamp，

　　walked out into the dark hallway and called.

　　Her father came up. He heard her breathing

　　as he clomped upstairs preoccupied， wrenched

　　out of a rented film just now taking grip

　　on him and the child's mother， his day-end

　　bottle of beer set carefully on the stairs，

　　marking the trail back down into that evening

　　adult world - he could hear her breathing ***or

　　really， more an anxious， breathy giggle*** but

　　couldn't see her， then in the hallway stopped，

　　mind spinning to sort the apparition

　　of fireflies hovering ahead， till he sensed

　　his daughter and heard in her breathing

　　the pent， grave concentration of her pose，

　　mapped onto the star chart of the darkness，

　　arms stretched high， head back， one foot slightly raised -

　　the Dancer， he supposed， and all his love

　　spun to centre with crushing force， to find her

　　momentarily fixed， as unchanging

　　as he and her mother must seem to her，

　　and the way the stars are; as if the stars are.