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长篇经典英文诗歌朗诵

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  文学是一种语言艺术,诗歌又历来被视作文学的最高形式。学习英语诗歌不但有助于开阔视野,陶冶性情,而且对于英语学习有很大帮助。学习啦小编整理了长篇经典英文诗歌,欢迎阅读!

  长篇经典英文诗歌篇一

  Charlotte Brontë in Leeds Point

  by Stephen Dunn

  From her window marshland stretched for miles.

  If not for egrets and gulls, it reminded her of the moors

  behind the parsonage, how the fog often hovered

  and descended as if sheltering some sweet compulsion

  the age was not ready to see. On clear days the jagged

  skyline of Atlantic City was visible——Atlantic City,

  where all compulsions had a home.

  "Everything's too easy now," she said to her neighbor,

  "nothing resisted, nothing gained." Once, at eighteen,

  she dreamed of London's proud salons glowing

  with brilliant fires and dazzling chandeliers.

  Already her own person——passionate, assertive——

  soon she'd create a governess insistent on rights equal

  to those above her rank. "The dangerous picture

  of a natural heart," one offended critic carped.

  She'd failed, he said, to let religion reign

  over the passions and, worse, she was a woman.

  Now she was amazed at what women had,

  doubly amazed at what they didn't.

  But she hadn't come back to complain or haunt.

  Her house on the bay was modest, adequate.

  长篇经典英文诗歌篇二

  The Present Writer

  by Coner O'Callaghan

  answers questions vaguely, as if from distance,

  cares less for the dribs and drabs of his libido;

  gets more droll, lachrymose, implicit with age;

  has backed from the room, the turntable moving

  and a refill pad lying open at the page

  with 'swansong' and 'glockenspiel' written on it;

  makes collect calls from payphones, lost for words;

  has been known to sleep in the rear seat

  on the hard shoulder, the hazards ticking;

  is given to sudden floods of hope; still dreams

  of swimming pools, in sepia; can take or leave

  a life in shadow; will whoop out of the blue

  and surface on the landing, fork and spoon in hand,

  adrift of what the done thing was; doodles butterflies

  on the envelopes of unread letters; travels happiest

  towards daylight and fancies pigeons; gets a kick

  inhabiting the third person, as if talking across himself

  or forever clapping his own exits from the wings.

  长篇经典英文诗歌篇三

  The Potato

  by Joseph Stroud

  Three days into the journey

  I lost the Inca Trail

  and scrambled around the Andes

  in a growing panic

  when on a hillside below snowline

  I met a farmer who pointed the way——

  Machu Picchu allá, he said.

  He knew where I wanted to go.

  From my pack I pulled out an orange.

  It seemed to catch fire

  in that high blue Andean sky.

  I gave it to him.

  He had been digging in a garden,

  turning up clumps of earth,

  some odd, misshapen nuggets,

  some potatoes.

  He handed me one,

  a potato the size of the orange

  looking as if it had been in the ground

  a hundred years,

  a potato I carried with me

  until at last I stood gazing down

  on the Urubamba valley,

  peaks rising out of the jungle into clouds,

  and there among the mists

  was the Temple of the Sun

  and the Lost City of the Incas.

  Looking back now, all these years later,

  what I remember most,

  what matters to me most,

  was that farmer, alone on his hillside,

  who gave me a potato,

  a potato with its peasant face,

  its lumps and lunar craters,

  a potato that fit perfectly in my hand,

  a potato that consoled me as I walked,

  told me not to fear,

  held me close to the earth,

  the potato I put in a pot that night,

  the potato I boiled above Machu Picchu,

  the patient, gnarled potato

  I ate.

  
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