最好好的优美英文诗精选
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。小编精心收集了最好的优美英文诗精选，供大家欣赏学习!
最好的优美英文诗精选篇1
This Work
by Martha Zweig
The cold orange hands of the salamanders still wrap
and unwrap the baby he dreams he was
then long before there was any human family.
Then their work was just beginning on the
damp stones and mosses too.
He had to be as little strange as possible.
They were making the world & working on him too.
He was warmer but less strange than a moss or a stone was，
that saved him.
The moss worked on the stone too.
The stone worked on him like a mind
he had to grow up to talk to or
dream to but without turning strange.
The cold hands run over him.
They read the body he dreams of as a baby's to the stone.
Before there was any human family the work
that make him was this work just beginning.
最好的优美英文诗精选篇2
This Was Once a Love Poem
by Jane Hirshfield
This was once a love poem，
before its haunches thickened， its breath grew short，
before it found itself sitting，
perplexed and a little embarrassed，
on the fender of a parked car，
while many people passed by without turning their heads.
It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.
It remembers choosing these shoes，this scarf or tie.
Once， it drank beer for breakfast，drifted its feet
in a river side by side with the feet of another.
Once it pretended shyness， then grew truly shy，
dropping its head so the fair would fall forward，
so the eyes would not be seen.
IT spoke with passion of history， of art.
It was lovely then， this poem.
Under its chin， no fold of skin softened.
Behind the knees， no pad of yellow fat.
What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.
An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows， its cheeks.
The longing has not diminished.
Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat，
the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.
Yes， it decides：
Many miniature cacti， in blue and red painted pots.
When it finds itself disquieted
by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life，
it will touch them—one， then another
with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.
最好的优美英文诗精选篇3
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold，
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering， breaking.
When the rooms were warm， he'd call，
and slowly I would rise and dress，
fearing the chronic angers of that house，
Speaking indifferently to him，
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know， what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
最好的优美英文诗精选篇4
The Weakness
by Toi Derricotte
That time my grandmother dragged me
through the perfume aisles at Saks，
she held me up by my arm，
hissing， "Stand up，"
through clenched teeth，
her eyes bright as a dog's
cornered in the light.
She said it over and over，
as if she were Jesus，and I were dead.
She had been solid as a tree，
a fur around her neck，
a light-skinned matron whose car was parked，
who walked on swirling marble
and passed through brass openings——in 1945.
There was not even a black elevator operator at Saks.
The saleswoman had brought velvet leggings to lace me in，
and cooed， as if in service of all grandmothers.
My grandmother had smiled，but not hungrily，
not like my mother who hated them， but wanted to please，
and they had smiled back，
as if they were wearing wooden collars.
When my legs gave out，
my grandmother ragged me up and held me like God
holds saints by the roots of the hair.
I begged her to believe I couldn't help it.
Stumbling， her face white with sweat，
she pushed me through the crowd，
rushing away from those eyes that saw through er clothes，
under her skin， all the way down to the transparent genes confessing.
最好的优美英文诗精选篇5
Consolation Miracle
by Chad Davidson
In the pewless church of San Juan Chula，
a Neocatholic Tzozil Indian
wrings a chicken's neck. Through pi?oned air，
stars from tourist flashbulbs flame， reflecting
in the reddened eyes， in the mirrors
statuary cling to， inside their plate-
glass boxes. A mother fills a shot-
glass with fire. Others offer up moon-
shine swelling in goat bladders， the slender
throats of coke bottles， as if gods too thirsted
for the real thing. The slightest angle
of a satellite dish sends me to Florida，
where the sleepless claim the stars talk
too much. They stumble to their own
worn Virgin Mary whose eyes， they swear，
bleed. Florida： rising with its dead，
even as it sinks into the glade.
Meanwhile， a coast away， the heavenly gait
of Bigfoot in the famous Super-8，
voiced over with a cyrptozoologist
who's all but laughed at the zipper-lined torso.
Bigfoot trails out of California
into my living room， a miracle
in the muddled middle ground of the event
horizon， in the swell between each seismic wave
where time carries itself like Bigfoot： heavy，
awkward， a touch too real to be real.
And the miracle cleaners make everything
disappear into faintly floral scents.
Miracle-starved， out of sleep or the lack of it.
I keep watching， not to see Bigfoot
but to be Bigfoot， trapse through grainy screens，
and the countless watching eyes， the brilliant
nebulae bleeding. Yeti， pray
you come again， you Sasquatch. Video
our world for your religions. Memorize
all these pleasure bulbs， these satellites，
our eyes， our stars. Look： how we turn
each other on tonight， one at a time.