簡單好背的英文詩歌精選

　　英語詩歌是英美文學中的珍寶。在英美文學中,尤其是早期作品中,如史詩及戲劇都是以詩歌的形式出現。小編精心收集了簡單好背的英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!

　　簡單好背的英文詩歌篇1

　　Salt

　　by Ander Monson

　　It covers everything， a glossy January rind

　　along tires. Sunny days have brought it out，

　　burned away the ice， left

　　the calcified tidelines to gloat

　　on the hoods and sun-warm trunks

　　of cars queued up along the curb，

　　parking close as they can get

　　to each other， to the raised

　　sidewalk that's buried

　　beneath the dirt crust next to the neon-lit

　　sign for the funeral home.

　　The body of the boy we knew is still

　　inside， the cheeks teased

　　back to cheery life with rouge.

　　The ice on the canal

　　the faulty floor through which he descended

　　blazing on the back of his Arctic Cat

　　is black as slate

　　which means it's thin

　　and boys on the shore

　　throw aimless stones that yield

　　ricochets with laser sounds.

　　The outdoor rink is bare， festooned

　　with bits of the Canadian flag

　　fragments of the maple leaf

　　glistening starlike after storm.

　　簡單好背的英文詩歌篇2

　　San Antonio

　　by Naomi Shihab Nye

　　Tonight I lingered over your name，

　　the delicate assembly of vowels

　　a voice inside my head.

　　You were sleeping when I arrived.

　　I stood by your bed

　　and watched the sheets rise gently.

　　I knew what slant of light

　　would make you turn over.

　　It was then I felt

　　the highways slide out of my hands.

　　I remembered the old men

　　in the west side cafe，

　　dealing dominoes like magical charms.

　　It was then I knew，

　　like a woman looking backward，

　　I could not leave you，

　　or find anyone I loved more.

　　簡單好背的英文詩歌篇3

　　Salvage

　　by Amy Clampitt

　　Daily the cortege of crumpled

　　defunct cars

　　goes by by the lasagna-

　　layered flatbed

　　truckload： hardtop

　　reverting to tar smudge，

　　wax shine antiqued to crusted

　　winepress smear，

　　windshield battered to

　　intact ice-tint， a rarity

　　fresh from the Pleistocene.

　　I like it; privately

　　I find esthetic

　　satisfaction in these

　　ceremonial removals

　　from the category of

　　received ideas

　　to regions where pigeons'

　　svelte smoke-velvet

　　limousines， taxiing

　　in whirligigs， reclaim

　　a parking lot，

　　and the bag-laden

　　hermit woman， disencumbered

　　of a greater incubus，

　　the crush of unexamined

　　attitudes， stoutly

　　follows her routine，

　　mining the mountainsides

　　of our daily refuse

　　for artifacts： subversive

　　re-establishing

　　with each arcane

　　trash-basket dig

　　the pleasures of the ruined.

　　簡單好背的英文詩歌篇4

　　San Francisco Night Windows

　　by Robert Penn Warren

　　So hangs the hour like fruit fullblown and sweet，

　　Our strict and desperate avatar，

　　Despite that antique westward gulls lament

　　Over enormous waters which retreat

　　Weary unto the white and sensual star.

　　Accept these images for what they are——

　　Out of the past a fragile element

　　Of substance into accident.

　　I would speak honestly and of a full heart;

　　I would speak surely for the tale is short，

　　And the soul's remorseless catalogue

　　Assumes its quick and piteous sum.

　　Think you， hungry is the city in the fog

　　Where now the darkened piles resume

　　Their framed and frozen prayer

　　Articulate and shafted in the stone

　　Against the void and absolute air.

　　If so the frantic breath could be forgiven，

　　And the deep blood subdued before it is gone

　　In a savage paternoster to the stone，

　　Then might we all be shriven.

　　簡單好背的英文詩歌篇5

　　San Sepolcro

　　by Jorie Graham

　　In this blue light

　　I can take you there，

　　snow having made me

　　a world of bone

　　seen through to. This

　　is my house，

　　my section of Etruscan

　　wall， my neighbor's

　　lemontrees， and， just below

　　the lower church，

　　the airplane factory.

　　A rooster

　　crows all day from mist

　　outside the walls.

　　There's milk on the air，

　　ice on the oily

　　lemonskins. How clean

　　the mind is，

　　holy grave. It is this girl

　　by Piero

　　della Francesca， unbuttoning

　　her blue dress，

　　her mantle of weather，

　　to go into

　　labor. Come， we can go in.

　　It is before

　　the birth of god. No one

　　has risen yet

　　to the museums， to the assembly

　　line——bodies

　　and wings——to the open air

　　market. This is

　　what the living do： go in.

　　It's a long way.

　　And the dress keeps opening

　　from eternity

　　to privacy， quickening.

　　Inside， at the heart，

　　is tragedy， the present moment

　　forever stillborn，

　　but going in， each breath

　　is a button

　　coming undone， something terribly

　　nimble-fingered

　　finding all of the stops.