有关于经典英文诗歌朗诵

英语诗歌的特点和其他语言诗歌的特点一样,都是形象的语言和富于音乐性的语言。小编精心收集了有关于经典英文诗歌，供大家欣赏学习!

有关于经典英文诗歌篇1

Stealing The Scream

by Monica Youn

It was hardly a high-tech operation， stealing The Scream.

That we know for certain， and what was left behind——

a store-bought ladder， a broken window，

and fifty-one seconds of videotape， abstract as an overture.

And the rest? We don't know. But we can envision

moonlight coming in through the broken window，

casting a bright shape over everything——the paintings，

the floor tiles， the velvet ropes： a single， sharp-edged pattern;

the figure's fixed hysteria rendered suddenly ironic

by the fact of something happening; houses

clapping a thousand shingle hands to shocked cheeks

along the road from Oslo to Asgardstrand;

the guards rushing in——too late!——greeted only

by the gap-toothed smirk of the museum walls;

and dangling from the picture wire like a baited hook，

a postcard： "Thanks for the poor security."

The policemen， lost as tourists， stand whispering

in the galleries： ". . .but what does it all mean?"

Someone has the answers， someone who， grasping the frame，

saw his sun-red face reflected in that familiar boiling sky.

有关于经典英文诗歌篇2

Success Comes to Cow Creek

by James Tate

I sit on the tracks，

a hundred feet from

earth， fifty from the

water. Gerald is

inching toward me

as grim， slow， and

determined as a

season， because he

has no trade and wants

none. It's been nine months

since I last listened

to his fate， but I

know what he will say：

he's the fire hydrant

of the underdog.

When he reaches my

point above the creek，

he sits down without

salutation， and

spits profoundly out

past the edge， and peeks

for meaning in the

ripple it brings. He

scowls. He speaks： when you

walk down any street

you see nothing but

coagulations

of shit and vomit，

and I'm sick of it.

I suggest suicide;

he prefers murder，

and spits again for

the sake of all the

great devout losers.

A conductor's horn

concerto breaks the

air， and we， two doomed

pennies on the track，

shove off and somersault

like anesthetized

fleas， ruffling the

ideal locomotive

poised on the water

with our light， dry bodies.

Gerald shouts

terrifically as

he sails downstream like

a young man with a

destination. I

swim toward shore as

fast as my boots will

allow; as always，

neglecting to drown.

有关于经典英文诗歌篇3

Streetsby Naomi Shihab Nye

A man leaves the world

and the streets he lived on

grow a little shorter.

One more window dark

in this city， the figs on his branches

will soften for birds.

If we stand quietly enough evenings

there grows a whole company of us

standing quietly together.

overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees

and the sky which sews and sews， tirelessly sewing，

drops her purple hem.

Each thing in its time， in its place，

it would be nice to think the same about people.

Some people do. They sleep completely，

waking refreshed. Others live in two worlds，

the lost and remembered.

They sleep twice， once for the one who is gone，

once for themselves. They dream thickly，

dream double， they wake from a dream

into another one， they walk the short streets

calling out names， and then they answer.

有关于经典英文诗歌篇4

Stonemason

by James O'Hern

My stonemason John says

he uses Elberton granite from Georgia

It has the best grain and lasts the longest

How long is long I ask

Oh he says a thousand years

I want more than hard gray stone

to guard her silence

I want stone that stays alive

a megalith jammed deep into earth

an antenna to amplify the signals

emitted from her ash and bone

I went to Ireland

looking for the perfect stone

found stone cottages and monuments

mountains and fields of stone

continuous rows of stonewalls

wound round the island like an offering

I found stone carvings of mermaids

and ancient unnamed river gods

a Sheela-na-Gig I thought I recognized

having seen her name

on the walls of a cave in the Dordogne

along with her portrait cut and shaped

on the rounded surface of soft white stone

There are no stones

where my mother and I were born

only the jagged edges of memory

ground down by the desert molcajete

to caliche and polished round pebbles

leaving no trace of history

but an abandoned pulque farm

an adobe jail

and a dried up river bed