好朗誦的長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌
好朗誦的長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌
英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌是英語(yǔ)語(yǔ)言與文學(xué)的精華。開展英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌教學(xué)能提高學(xué)生英語(yǔ)語(yǔ)言基礎(chǔ)知識(shí)水平、寫作水平,有助于學(xué)生西方歷史文化的學(xué)習(xí),提高學(xué)生的想象力,也有助于對(duì)學(xué)生的道德教育。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了好朗誦的長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌，歡迎閱讀!
好朗誦的長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌篇一
The Unknown Citizen
by W. H. Auden
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint，
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That， in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word， he was a saint，
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired，
But satisfied his employers， Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views，
For his Union reports that he paid his dues，
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured，
And his Health-card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man，
A phonograph， a radio， a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace， he was for peace： when there was war， he went.
He was married and added five children to the population，
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd：
Had anything been wrong， we should certainly have heard.
好朗誦的長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌篇二
City That Does Not Sleep
by Federico García Lorca
Translated by Robert Bly
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody， nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream，
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody， nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist， dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins，
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm，
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge，
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe，
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting，
where the bear's teeth are waiting，
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting，
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody， nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes，
a whip， boys， a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one， no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night，
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets， and the poison， and the skull of the theaters.
好朗誦的長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌篇三
Cicada
by John Blair
A youngest brother turns seventeen with a click as good as a roar，
finds the door and is gone.
You listen for that small sound， hear a memory.
The air-raid sirens howled of summer tornadoes， the sound
thrown back against the scattered thumbs
of grain silos and the open Oklahoma plains
like the warning wail of insects.
Repudiation is fast like a whirlwind.
Only children don't know that all you live is leaving.
Yes， the first knowledge that counts is that everything stops.
Even in the bible-belt， second comings are promises
you never really believed;
so you turn and walk into the embrace of the world
as you would to a woman， an arrant
an orphic movement as shocking as the subtle
animal pulse of a flower opening， palm up.
We are all so helpless.
I can look at my wife's full form now
and hope for children，
picture her figured by the weight of babies.
Only， it's still so much like trying to find something
once lost. My brother felt the fullness of his years， the pull
in the gut that's almost sickness. His white
smooth face is gone into living and fierce illusion，
a journey dissolute and as immutable
as the whining heat of summer.
Soon enough， too soon， momentum just isn't enough.
Our tragedy is to live in a world
that doesn't invite us back.
We slow， find ourselves sitting in a room that shifts so slightly
we can only imagine the difference.
I want to tell him to listen.
I want to tell him what it is to crave darkness，
to want to crawl headfirst into a dirt-warm womb
to sleep， to wait seventeen years，
to emerge again.
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