關(guān)于英語現(xiàn)代詩歌欣賞
關(guān)于英語現(xiàn)代詩歌欣賞
作為人類情感表達(dá)的藝術(shù)形式,詩歌的語言清新含蓄,深受人們喜愛。英文詩歌是英語民族的文化瑰寶,具有其獨特的感染力。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編帶來的關(guān)于英語現(xiàn)代詩歌欣賞，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于英語現(xiàn)代詩歌欣賞篇一
Death,be not proud(Holy Sonnet10)
by John Donne
Death， be not proud， though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful， for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not， poor Death， nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep， which but thy pictures be，
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow，
And soonest our best men with thee do go，
Rest of their bones， and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate， chance， kings， and desperate men，
And dost with poison， war， and sickness dwell，
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past， we wake eternally，
And death shall be no more; Death， thou shalt die.
關(guān)于英語現(xiàn)代詩歌欣賞篇二
Descriptions of Heaven and Hell
by Mark Jarman
The wave breaks
And I'm carried into it.
This is hell， I know，
Yet my father laughs，
Chest-deep， proving I'm wrong.
We're safely rooted，
Rocked on his toes.
Nothing irked him more
Than asking， "What is there
Beyond death?"
His theory once was
That love greets you，
And the loveless
Don't know what to say.
關(guān)于英語現(xiàn)代詩歌欣賞篇三
Wedding the Lock smith’s Daug
by Robin Robertson
The slow-grained slide to embed the blade
of the key is a sheathing，
a gliding on graphite， pushing inside
to find the ribs of the lock.
Sunk home， the true key slots to its matrix;
geared， tight-fitting， they turn
together， shooting the spring-lock，
throwing the bolt. Dactyls， iambics——
the clinch of words——the hidden couplings
in the cased machine. A chime of sound
on sound： the way the sung note snibs on meaning
and holds. The lines engage and marry now，
their bells are keeping time;
the church doors close and open underground.
關(guān)于英語現(xiàn)代詩歌欣賞篇四
Directory of Obsolete Securities
by Michael Teig
I could stay here humming
and amuse myself with the window.
The lowing cows you cannot see.
Another month I made up. Another asterisk.
How I wrestle with the newspaper
and other people's pillows.
How I think of Albert，
for he is like the names of the days.
He walks the field
kicking a potato，
dreaming of casinos.
His emissaries get lost in alleyways.
His bridges crawl with teenagers.
The phone rings，
the sky tilts away.
A whole migration of Albert under the office door.
Albert is in the Otzal Alps.
He sends postcards saying
getting to Albert might be difficult.
Airplanes fly over and that is useful.
Albert is in the estuary.
We sit on the porch sharing a swing.
He is as loud as a rifle， over and over.
He clears the fields of crows.
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