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关于简单易懂的英文诗篇一
Then
by Spencer Reece
I was a full-time house sitter. I had no title.
I lived in a farmhouse， on a small hill，
surrounded by 100 acres. All was still.
The fields were in a government program
that paid farmers to abandon them. Perfect.
I overlooked Union Lake， a small lake，
with a small ugly island in the middle
a sort of mistake， a cluster of dead elms
encircled by marsh， resembling a smear
of oil paint left to congeal on a palette.
Pesticides farmers sprayed on their crops
over the years had drained into the lake
and made the water black， the fish shake.
About the family that built the house
I knew nothing. Built in 1865，
perhaps they came after the Civil War?
It was a simple house. Two stories.
Six rooms. Every wall crooked.
Before the house， Indians camped there.
If you listened you could hear them.
On Sunday afternoons in early June，
the sun would burnish the interiors.
Shafts of light fell across the rooms.
An old gray cat sparred his mote-swirls.
Up a tiny staircase， ladder steep，
I was often found， adrift， half asleep.
I forgot words， where I lived， my dreams.
Mirrors around the house， those streams，
ran out of gossip. The walls absorbed me.
There was every indication I was safe there.
Outside， children sang， sweetening the air：
Row， row， row your boat， gently down the stream.
Merrily， merrily， merrily， merrily， life is but a dream . . .
their fingers marrying each other with ease
as the dark built its scaffolding above the trees.
Peonies spoiled， dye ran from their centers.
Often， the lawn was covered by a fine soft rain.
Days disappeared as quickly as they came.
The children receded. The moon rose.
Cows paused on the wild green plain
of all that land still left uncommercialized.
Three years I had there. Alone. At peace.
Often I awoke as the light began to cease.
The house breathed and shook like a lover
as I took for myself time needed to recover.
关于简单易懂的英文诗篇二
There Will Come Soft Rains
by Sara Teasdale
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground，
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night，
And wild plum trees in tremulous white，
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war， not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind， neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself， when she woke at dawn，
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
关于简单易懂的英文诗篇三
There are Days
by John Montague
There are days when
one should be able
to pluck off one's head
like a dented or worn
helmet， straight from
the nape and collarbone
(those crackling branches!)
and place it firmly down
in the bed of a flowing stream.
Clear， clean， chill currents
coursing and spuming through
the sour and stale compartments
of the brain， dimmed eardrums，
bleared eyesockets， filmed tongue.
And then set it back again
on the base of the shoulders：
well tamped down， of course，
the laved skin and mouth，
the marble of the eyes
rinsed and ready
for love; for prophecy?
关于简单易懂的英文诗篇四
They flee from me
by Thomas Wyatt
They flee from me， that sometime did me seek，
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them， gentle， tame， and meek，
That now are wild， and do not remember
That sometime they put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range，
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be Fortune it hath been otherwise，
Twenty times better; but once in special，
In thin array， after a pleasant guise，
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall，
And she me caught in her arms long and small，
And therewith all sweetly did me kiss
And softly said， "Dear heart， how like you this?"
It was no dream， I lay broad waking.
But all is turned， thorough my gentleness，
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go， of her goodness，
And she also to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindely am served，
I fain sould know what she hath deserved.
关于简单易懂的英文诗篇五
Thinking in Bed
by Dennis Lee
I'm thinking in bed，
CauseI can't get out
Till I learn how to think
What I'm thinking about;
What I'm thinking about
Is a person to be
A sort of a person
Who feels like me.
I might still be Alice，
Excepting I'm not.
And Snoopy is super，
But not when it's hot;
I couldn't be Piglet，
I don't think I'm Pooh，
I know I'm not Daddy
And I can't be you.
My breakfast is waiting.
My clothes are all out，
But what was that thing
I was thinking about?
I'll never get up
If I lie here all day;
But I still haven't thought，
So I'll just have to stay.
If I was a Grinch
I expect I would know.
But I don't think so.
There's so many people
I don't seem to be
I guess I'll just have to
Get up and be me.