优美英文诗句

英语诗歌是一个包含丰富社会生活内容、语言艺术和文化内涵的世界,是基础英语教学的一块很有潜力的教学资源。我整理了关于优美的英文诗句，欢迎阅读!

Mother Doesn't Want a Dog

by Judith Viorst

Mother doesn't want a dog.

Mother says they smell，

And never sit when you say sit，

Or even when you yell.

And when you come home late at night

And there is ice and snow，

You have to go back out because

The dumb dog has to go.

Mother doesn't want a dog.

Mother says they shed，

And always let the strangers in

And bark at friends instead，

And do disgraceful things on rugs，

And track mud on the floor，

And flop upon your bed at night

And snore their doggy snore.

Mother doesn't want a dog.

She's making a mistake.

Because， more than a dog， I think

She will not want this snake

Mr. Grumpledump's Song

by Shel Silverstein

Everything's wrong，

Days are too long，

Sunshine's too hot，

Wind is too strong.

Clouds are too fluffy，

Grass is too green，

Ground is too dusty，

Sheets are too clean.

Stars are too twinkly，

Moon is too high，

Water's too drippy，

Sand is too dry.

Rocks are too heavy，

Feathers too light，

Kids are too noisy，

Shoes are too tight.

Folks are too happy，

Singin' their songs.

Why can't they see it?

Everything's wrong!

Mound Digger

by Sarah Lindsay

This mound of dirt and the summer are heirs to transfer

from what lies before and what lies behind，

pinch by pinch. Of the mound， she keeps a record.

The point， the students have been assured，

is not to find objects. Their object is

to understand the ground.

What water did with it， when.

how often earthworms combed and cast it.

Whether it was tilled or thrust aside，

which seeds lay in it， which pollens settled.

When it's too dark to dig， she makes a tent

of reading assignments. A chapter on similarities

between spear points unearthed in Virginia

and Soultrean points in Spain，

both kinds wrought as though for beauty

and cached in heaps of red ocher. Another book

invites her to peer at the keyhole shape of a bone

the size of her index finger， engraved

these ten thousand years with forty strokes——

fourteen， eight， eleven， then seven——and polished.

A tally， a game， the score?

We'll never know. And here's a review

of arguments about a broken rock

that might have been bashed into useful shape

deliberately， with another rock，

by some original axe-making biped，

or might be a geofact， a tease，

a found axe——or no tool at all.

She douses the light

and all the words disappear.

Morning， back to the mound. It's two mounds now;

she knows it halfway through， its wayward layers，

silky and barren or matted with nutrients，

heavy clay， a thousand shades of brown.

She sees it with her eyes shut， with her palms，

sometimes tastes it. Leaves the flints and bones

to thrill-seekers and visionaries.

Dirt answers her questions. She has dug past

any props or plots or characters

to the stuff all stories walk on

Muse

by Meena Alexander

I was young when you came to me.

Each thing rings its turn，

you sang in my ear， a slip of a thing

dressed like a convent girl

white socks， shoes，

dark blue pinafore， white blouse.

A pencil box in hand： girl， book， tree

those were the words you gave me.

Girl was penne， hair drawn back，

gleaming on the scalp，

the self in a mirror in a rosewood room

the sky at monsoon time， pearl slits

In cloud cover， a jagged music pours：

gash of sense， raw covenant

clasped still in a gold bound book，

pusthakam pages parted，

ink rubbed with mist，

a bird might have dreamt its shadow there

spreading fire in a tree maram.

You murmured the word， sliding it on your tongue，

trying to get how a girl could turn

into a molten thing and not burn.

Centuries later worn out from travel

I rest under a tree.

You come to me

a bird shedding gold feathers，

each one a quill scraping my tympanum.

You set a book to my ribs.

Night after night I unclasp it

at the mirror's edge

alphabets flicker and soar.

Write in the light

of all the languages

you know the earth contains，

you murmur in my ear.

This is pure transport

Muse, a Lady Cautioning

by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

There's fairness in changing blood for septet's

guardian rhythm， the horn blossoming

into cadenza. No good pimp's scowl， his

baby's voice ruined sweet for the duration.

Yes， these predictable fifths. O， the blues

is all about slinging those low tales out

the back door (sing： child pried open on that

stained floor)。 O， Billie hollers way down dirt

roads (sing： woman on the verge of needled

logic)。 She's aware——yeah， I'm going to

kiss some man's sugared fist tonight. O， this

tableau's muse， a Lady cautioning me：

Just tough this thing out， girl. Sweat through the jones.

Don't ask for nothing. Spit your last damned note