有关优美英文诗歌欣赏

英语诗歌的特点是短小精悍,语言简练,注重押韵,具有丰富的想象力,是英语文学中的瑰宝。小编精心收集了有关优美英文诗歌，供大家欣赏学习!

有关优美英文诗歌篇1

Museum Guard

by David Hernandez

My condolences to the man dressed

for a funeral， sitting bored

on a gray folding chair， the zero

of his mouth widening in a yawn.

No doubt he's pictured himself inside

a painting or two around his station，

stealing a plump green grape

from the cluster hanging above

the corkscrew locks of Dionysus，

or shooting arrows at rosy-cheeked cherubs

hiding behind a woolly cloud.

With time limping along

like a Bruegel beggar， no doubt

he's even seen himself taking the place

of the one crucified： the black spike

of the minute hand piercing his left palm，

the hour hand penetrating the right，

nailed forever to one spot.

有关优美英文诗歌篇2

Notes on the Spring Holidays (excerpt)

by Charles Reznikoff

Hanukkah

In a world where each man must be of use

and each thing useful， the rebellious Jews

light not one light but eight——

not to see by but to look at.

有关优美英文诗歌篇3

Notes from the Other Side

by Jane Kenyon

I divested myself of despair and fear when I came here.

Now there is no more catching one's own eye in the mirror，

there are no bad books， no plastic，no insurance premiums， and of course

no illness. Contrition does not exist， nor gnashing

of teeth. No one howls as the first clod of earth hits the casket.

The poor we no longer have with us. Our calm hearts strike only the hour，

and God， as promised， proves to be mercy clothed in light

有关优美英文诗歌篇4

Out-of-the-Body Travel

by Stanley Plumly

1

And then he would lift this finest

of furniture to his big left shoulder

and tuck it in and draw the bow

so carefully as to make the music

almost visible on the air. And play

and play until a whole roomful of the sad

relatives mourned. They knew this was

drawing of blood， threading and rethreading

the needle. They saw even in my father's

face how well he understood the pain

he put them to——his raw， red cheek

pressed against the cheek of the wood . . .

2

And in one stroke he brings the hammer

down， like mercy， so that the young bull's

legs suddenly fly out from under it . . .

While in the dream he is the good angel

in Chagall， the great ghost of his body

like light over the town. The violin

sustains him. It is pain remembered.

Either way， I know if I wake up cold，

and go out into the clear spring night，

still dark and precise with stars，

I will feel the wind coming down hard

like his hand， in fever， on my forehead

有关优美英文诗歌篇5

Nothing But Deathby Pablo Neruda Translated by Robert Bly

There are cemeteries that are lonely，

graves full of bones that do not make a sound，

the heart moving through a tunnel，

in it darkness， darkness， darkness，

like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves，

as though we were drowning inside our hearts，

as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses，

feet made of cold and sticky clay，

death is inside the bones，

like a barking where there are no dogs，

coming out from bells somewhere， from graves somewhere，

growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone

coffins under sail，

embarking with the pale dead， with women that have dead hair，

with bakers who are as white as angels，

and pensive young girls married to notary publics，

caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead，

the river of dark purple，

moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death，

filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound

like a shoe with no foot in it， like a suit with no man in it，

comes and knocks， using a ring with no stone in it， with no finger in it，

comes and shouts with no mouth， with no tongue， with no throat.

Nevertheless its steps can be heard

]and its clothing makes a hushed sound， like a tree.

I'm not sure， I understand only a little， I can hardly see，

but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets，

of violets that are at home in the earth，

because the face of death is green，

and the look death gives is green，

with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf

and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom，

lapping the floor， looking for dead bodies，

death is inside the broom，

the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses，

it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots：

it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses，

in the black blankets， and suddenly breathes out：

it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets，

and the beds go sailing toward a port

where death is waiting， dressed like an admiral