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简单好背的英文诗歌精选

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  英语诗歌是英美文学中的珍宝。在英美文学中,尤其是早期作品中,如史诗及戏剧都是以诗歌的形式出现。小编精心收集了简单好背的英文诗歌,供大家欣赏学习!

  简单好背的英文诗歌篇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.

  简单好背的英文诗歌篇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.

  简单好背的英文诗歌篇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.

  简单好背的英文诗歌篇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.

  简单好背的英文诗歌篇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.

  
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