关于好的优秀英文诗歌

诗歌是人类的语言瑰宝,可以提高人的精神修养、艺术修养和语言修养。小编精心收集了关于好的优秀英文诗歌，供大家欣赏学习!

关于好的优秀英文诗歌篇1

The Wooden Trap

by Kevin Cantwell

The held cry of a hawk makes Thomas Hardy think

to make her believe it's a newborn's cry she hears.

Milk wets through her blouse. The other women know

at once. That's chapter one. How it starts

to grow while above his head the cumuli

accumulate. The August fields waver beyond

the privet hedge. He's given up the novel

for poetry. The women look at each other.

One counts out change on a plank counter.

That's that she says. Then exposition's drift

to flashback： How a horseshoe loosens;

how when leading the horse the master returns.

Not angry， only to get it done right.

How she presses under the eaves of the shed

with him while the afternoon rain comes down

so hard they are nearly soaked anyway.

The editorial omniscient bites his tongue.

Innocent as it goes. The scent of windfall

rises up through the apple tree from the ground.

Some of the leaves bronze even now. There's no

turning back but that's getting ahead of ourselves.

There's Hardy. Shoes a disgrace. Canvas gaiters

undone and one foot on top of the ladder

where it narrows at the highest rung， the worn wood

twice the width of a stirrup， and one foot

in the crotch of a limb. He has it all

worked out. She's in another country where rumor's made

a place for her. Where's the little one?

they ask， but she presses past them into the lane，

It serves her right but no one says it

so that she hears. A limb tumbles through the green

cloud of foliage. And then another. He cuts it back

to make it bear， though a neighbor's stopped to tell him

it's ill-advised so late in the season.

She finds a place for herself as a domestic

until the governor says a girl's come back.

They'll have to let her go. It's dusk. The clouds

go pink to shell. He folds the little saw.

The ladder widens to its base， A trick of perspective

also that lures the gopher into the wooden box

he's set in its tunnel， the hole which looks

like an exit， the end of the tunnel， daylight，

but smaller than its head and those footsteps

on the earth above， which pause and anticipate

her every turn， and block her escape

with a garden fork plunged into the lyric dark.

关于好的优秀英文诗歌篇2

The Women Who Clean Fish

by Erica Funkhouser

The women who clean fish are all named Rose

or Grace. They wake up close to the water，

damp and dreamy beneath white sheets，

thinking of white beaches.

It is always humid where they work.

Under plastic aprons， their breasts

foam and bubble. They wear old clothes

because the smell will never go.

On the floor， chlorine.

On the window， dry streams left by gulls.

When tourists come to watch them

working over belts of cod and hake，

they don't look up.

They stand above the gutter. When the belt starts

they pack the bodies in， ten per box，

their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament.

The dead fish fall compliantly.

It is the iridescent scales that stick，

clinging to cheek and wrist，

lighting up hours later in a dark room.

The packers say they feel orange spawn

between their fingers， the smell of themselves

more like salt than peach.

关于好的优秀英文诗歌篇3

The Woodspurge

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The wind flapped loose， the wind was still，

Shaken out dead from tree and hill：

I had walked on at the wind's will，

I sat now， for the wind was still.

Between my knees my forehead was，

My lips， drawn in， said not Alas!

My hair was over in the grass，

My naked ears heard the day pass.

My eyes， wide open， had the run

Of some ten weeds to fix upon;

Among those few， out of the sun，

The woodspurge flowered， three cups in one.

From perfect grief there need not be

Wisdom or even memory：

One thing then learnt remains to me，

The woodspurge has a cup of three.

关于好的优秀英文诗歌篇4

The World

by George Herbert

Love built a stately house， where Fortune came，

And spinning fancies， she was heard to say

That her fine cobwebs did support the frame，

Whereas they were supported by the same;

But Wisdom quickly swept them all away.

The Pleasure came， who， liking not the fashion，

Began to make balconies， terraces，

Till she had weakened all by alteration;

But reverend laws， and many a proclomation

Reforméd all at length with menaces.

Then entered Sin， and with that sycamore

Whose leaves first sheltered man from drought and dew，

Working and winding slily evermore，

The inward walls and summers cleft and tore;

But Grace shored these， and cut that as it grew.

Then Sin combined with death in a firm band，

To raze the building to the very floor;

Which they effected，——none could them withstand;

But Love and Grace took Glory by the hand，

And built a braver palace than before.

关于好的优秀英文诗歌篇5

The Writer

by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house

Where light breaks， and the windows are tossed with linden，

My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell， hearing

From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is， the stuff

Of her life is a great cargo， and some of it heavy：

I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses，

As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.

A stillness greatens， in which

The whole house seems to be thinking，

And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

Of strokes， and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling

Which was trapped in that very room， two years ago;

How we stole in， lifted a sash

And retreated， not to affright it;

And how for a helpless hour， through the crack of the door，

We watched the sleek， wild， dark

And iridescent creature

Batter against the brilliance， drop like a glove

To the hard floor， or the desk-top，

And wait then， humped and bloody，

For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

Rose when， suddenly sure，

It lifted off from a chair-back，

Beating a smooth course for the right window

And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter， my darling，

Of life or death， as I had forgotten. I wish

What I wished you before， but harder.