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关于经典优美的英文诗歌欣赏

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  诗歌是一种典型的文学形式,它既属于文学,又是一种艺术。古今中外,对于诗歌的研究从未间断,我们在研究的过程中发现诗歌的美,同时又在前人研究的基础上创造出更好的诗歌作品。小编精心收集了关于经典优美的英文诗歌,供大家欣赏学习!

  关于经典优美的英文诗歌篇1

  The Poem as Mask

  by Muriel Rukeyser

  When I wrote of the women in their dances and wildness, it was a mask,

  on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,

  it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,

  fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,

  it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.

  There is no mountain, there is no god, there is memory

  of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued child

  beside me among the doctors, and a word

  of rescue from the great eyes.

  No more masks! No more mythologies!

  Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,

  the fragments join in me with their own music.

  关于经典优美的英文诗歌篇2

  The Poet of Bray

  by John Heath-Stubbs

  Back in the dear old thirties' days

  When politics was passion

  A harmless left-wing bard was I

  And so I grew in fashion:

  Although I never really joined

  The Party of the Masses

  I was most awfully chummy with

  The Proletarian classes.

  This is the course I'll always steer

  Until the stars grow dim, sir——

  That howsoever taste may veer

  I'll be in the swim, sir.

  But as the tide of war swept on

  I turned Apocalyptic:

  With symbol, myth and archetype

  My verse grew crammed and cryptic:

  With New Romantic zeal I swore

  That Auden was a fake, sir,

  And found the mind of Nicky Moore

  More int'resting than Blake, sir.

  White Horsemen down New Roads had run

  But taste required improvement:

  I turned to greet the rising sun

  And so I joined the Movement!

  Glittering and ambiguous

  In villanelles I sported:

  With Dr. Leavis I concurred,

  And when he sneezed I snorted.

  But seeing that even John Wax might wane

  I left that one-way street, sir;

  I modified my style again,

  And now I am a Beat, sir:

  So very beat, my soul is beat

  Into a formless jelly:

  I set my verses now to jazz

  And read them on the telly.

  Perpetual non-conformist I——

  And that's the way I'm staying——

  The angriest young man alive

  (Although my hair is greying)

  And in my rage I'll not relent——

  No, not one single minute——

  Against the base Establishment

  (Until, of course, I'm in it)。

  This is the course I'll always steer

  Until the stars grow dim, sir——

  That howsoever taste may veer

  I'll be in the swim, sir.

  关于经典优美的英文诗歌篇3

  The Pomegranateby Eavan Boland

  The only legend I have ever loved is

  the story of a daughter lost in hell.

  And found and rescued there.

  Love and blackmail are the gist of it.

  Ceres and Persephone the names.

  And the best thing about the legend is

  I can enter it anywhere. And have.

  As a child in exile in

  a city of fogs and strange consonants,

  I read it first and at first I was

  an exiled child in the crackling dusk of

  the underworld, the stars blighted. Later

  I walked out in a summer twilight

  searching for my daughter at bed-time.

  When she came running I was ready

  to make any bargain to keep her.

  I carried her back past whitebeams

  and wasps and honey-scented buddleias.

  But I was Ceres then and I knew

  winter was in store for every leaf

  on every tree on that road.

  Was inescapable for each one we passed.

  And for me.

  It is winter

  and the stars are hidden.

  I climb the stairs and stand where I can see

  my child asleep beside her teen magazines,

  her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.

  The pomegranate! How did I forget it?

  She could have come home and been safe

  and ended the story and all

  our heart-broken searching but she reached

  out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.

  She put out her hand and pulled down

  the French sound for apple and

  the noise of stone and the proof

  that even in the place of death,

  at the heart of legend, in the midst

  of rocks full of unshed tears

  ready to be diamonds by the time

  the story was told, a child can be

  hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.

  The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.

  The suburb has cars and cable television.

  The veiled stars are above ground.

  It is another world. But what else

  can a mother give her daughter but such

  beautiful rifts in time?

  If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.

  The legend will be hers as well as mine.

  She will enter it. As I have.

  She will wake up. She will hold

  the papery flushed skin in her hand.

  And to her lips. I will say nothing.

  
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