關(guān)于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌欣賞
詩歌是一種典型的文學(xué)形式,它既屬于文學(xué),又是一種藝術(shù)。古今中外,對于詩歌的研究從未間斷,我們在研究的過程中發(fā)現(xiàn)詩歌的美,同時又在前人研究的基礎(chǔ)上創(chuàng)造出更好的詩歌作品。小編精心收集了關(guān)于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學(xué)習(xí)!
關(guān)于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇1
The Poem as Mask
by Muriel Rukeyser
When I wrote of the women in their dances and wildness， it was a mask，
on their mountain， gold-hunting， singing， in orgy，
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god，
fragmented， exiled from himself， his life， the love gone down with song，
it was myself， split open， unable to speak， in exile from myself.
There is no mountain， there is no god， there is memory
of my torn life， myself split open in sleep， the rescued child
beside me among the doctors， and a word
of rescue from the great eyes.
No more masks! No more mythologies!
Now， for the first time， the god lifts his hand，
the fragments join in me with their own music.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇2
The Poet of Bray
by John Heath-Stubbs
Back in the dear old thirties' days
When politics was passion
A harmless left-wing bard was I
And so I grew in fashion：
Although I never really joined
The Party of the Masses
I was most awfully chummy with
The Proletarian classes.
This is the course I'll always steer
Until the stars grow dim， sir——
That howsoever taste may veer
I'll be in the swim， sir.
But as the tide of war swept on
I turned Apocalyptic：
With symbol， myth and archetype
My verse grew crammed and cryptic：
With New Romantic zeal I swore
That Auden was a fake， sir，
And found the mind of Nicky Moore
More int'resting than Blake， sir.
White Horsemen down New Roads had run
But taste required improvement：
I turned to greet the rising sun
And so I joined the Movement!
Glittering and ambiguous
In villanelles I sported：
With Dr. Leavis I concurred，
And when he sneezed I snorted.
But seeing that even John Wax might wane
I left that one-way street， sir;
I modified my style again，
And now I am a Beat， sir：
So very beat， my soul is beat
Into a formless jelly：
I set my verses now to jazz
And read them on the telly.
Perpetual non-conformist I——
And that's the way I'm staying——
The angriest young man alive
(Although my hair is greying)
And in my rage I'll not relent——
No， not one single minute——
Against the base Establishment
(Until， of course， I'm in it)。
This is the course I'll always steer
Until the stars grow dim， sir——
That howsoever taste may veer
I'll be in the swim， sir.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇3
The Pomegranateby Eavan Boland
The only legend I have ever loved is
the story of a daughter lost in hell.
And found and rescued there.
Love and blackmail are the gist of it.
Ceres and Persephone the names.
And the best thing about the legend is
I can enter it anywhere. And have.
As a child in exile in
a city of fogs and strange consonants，
I read it first and at first I was
an exiled child in the crackling dusk of
the underworld， the stars blighted. Later
I walked out in a summer twilight
searching for my daughter at bed-time.
When she came running I was ready
to make any bargain to keep her.
I carried her back past whitebeams
and wasps and honey-scented buddleias.
But I was Ceres then and I knew
winter was in store for every leaf
on every tree on that road.
Was inescapable for each one we passed.
And for me.
It is winter
and the stars are hidden.
I climb the stairs and stand where I can see
my child asleep beside her teen magazines，
her can of Coke， her plate of uncut fruit.
The pomegranate! How did I forget it?
She could have come home and been safe
and ended the story and all
our heart-broken searching but she reached
out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.
She put out her hand and pulled down
the French sound for apple and
the noise of stone and the proof
that even in the place of death，
at the heart of legend， in the midst
of rocks full of unshed tears
ready to be diamonds by the time
the story was told， a child can be
hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.
The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.
The suburb has cars and cable television.
The veiled stars are above ground.
It is another world. But what else
can a mother give her daughter but such
beautiful rifts in time?
If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.
The legend will be hers as well as mine.
She will enter it. As I have.
She will wake up. She will hold
the papery flushed skin in her hand.
And to her lips. I will say nothing.
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關(guān)于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌欣賞
