关于好的英文诗词阅读
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。小编精心收集了关于好的英文诗词，供大家欣赏学习!
The Weary Blues
by Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune，
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon，
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing， that old piano moan——
"Ain't got nobody in all this world，
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."
Thump， thump， thump， went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more——
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied——
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.
关于好的英文诗词篇2The White Room
by Charles Simic
The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did， too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me——
And then didn't.
Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild
Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses，
Always more dark houses，
Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it， and the wonder，
Kept me sleepless.
The truth is bald and cold，
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn't leave her room.
The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things，
Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as "perfect."
Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins， a hand-mirror，
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn't it.
Just things as they are，
Unblinking， lying mute
In that bright light——
And the trees waiting for the night.
关于好的英文诗词篇3Continued
by Piotr Sommer
Nothing will be the same as it was，
even enjoying the same things
won't be the same. Our sorrows
will differ one from the other and we
will differ one from the other in our worries.
And nothing will be the same as it was，
nothing at all. Simple thoughts will sound
different， newer， since they'll be more simply， more newly
spoken. The heart will know how to open up and love
won't be love anymore. Everything will change.
Nothing will be the same as it was
and that too will be new somehow， since after all，
before， things could be similar： morning，
the rest of the day， evening and night， but not now.
关于好的英文诗词篇4Constellations
by Steven Heighton
After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser
and peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped
gable-wall， dimming the night vault of her ceiling
like a haze or the interfering glow
of a great city， small hands anticipating
eons as they raided the playful patterns
her father had mapped for her - black holes now
where the raised thumb-stubs and ears of the Bat
had been， the feet of the Turtle， wakeful
eyes of the Mourning Dove. She stuck those paper
stars on herself. One on each foot， the backs
of her hands， navel， tip of nose and so on，
then turned on the lamp by her bed and stood close
like a child chilled after a winter bath
pressed up to an air duct or a radiator
until those paper stars absorbed more light
than they could hold. Then turned off the lamp，
walked out into the dark hallway and called.
Her father came up. He heard her breathing
as he clomped upstairs preoccupied， wrenched
out of a rented film just now taking grip
on him and the child's mother， his day-end
bottle of beer set carefully on the stairs，
marking the trail back down into that evening
adult world - he could hear her breathing (or
really， more an anxious， breathy giggle) but
couldn't see her， then in the hallway stopped，
mind spinning to sort the apparition
of fireflies hovering ahead， till he sensed
his daughter and heard in her breathing
the pent， grave concentration of her pose，
mapped onto the star chart of the darkness，
arms stretched high， head back， one foot slightly raised -
the Dancer， he supposed， and all his love
spun to centre with crushing force， to find her
momentarily fixed， as unchanging
as he and her mother must seem to her，
and the way the stars are; as if the stars are.
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