优美的英语诗歌

英语诗歌,是一种较为纯粹的拼音语言,它有许多格律和音韵及音义方面的讲究,值得读者注意。我精心收集了最经典优美的英文诗，供大家欣赏学习!

让我们心怀信仰 Let Us Have Faith

Security is mostly a superstition.

安全大抵虚幻，

It does not exist in nature,

世间无处寻觅。

nor do the children of men

芸芸众生，

as a whole experience it.

无人有此经历。

Avoiding danger is no safer

避险难计久长，

in the long run than outright exposure.

不如现身搏击。

Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.

抑或险中求胜，抑或碌碌无为，人生非此即彼。

To keep our faces toward change and

让我们直面改变，

behave like free spirits

行如自由之灵，

in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable.

翱翔命运天际，是为不败之力。

Days of Yore

昔日时光

[USA]Joy Rainey King

[美国]乔伊. R.金

Back in days of yore,

回首昔日时光，

Life was simple, maybe a little of a bore.

生活简单，也许有一点厌倦。

Life was good back then,

那时的生活多么美好，

Way, way back when.

那是很久，很久以前。

Ladies has dresses adorned with lace,

淑女的衣裙镶着蕾丝花边，

And a smile of contentment on their face.

满足的笑容在她们的脸庞浮现。

They has gorgeous hair down to their waist,

她们的秀发垂至腰际，

And exuded poise and a gentle grace.

举止优雅，高贵自然。

They also has a certain charm,

被追求者的臂膀呵护时，

When escorted on their suitor’s arm.

她们的魅力无疑迷人光艳。

When day was almost through,

当白日将尽，

They would have a mint julep or two.

她们会喝一杯薄荷朱利酒，也许两杯。

In those days people talked to one another,

在那些日子里，人们相互交谈，

Instead of always texting each other,

而不是相互发短信，

Back when ladies were ladies,

从前女人是淑女，

And men were men,

男人是儿男，

Back in the days of way back when.

从前的时光，那是很久以前。

生当如夏花 It Is Not Growing like a Tree

It is not growing like a tree

要成就人生，

In bulk doth make man better be;

不必如巨树，木秀于林;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

不必如橡树，经年不倒，

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

亦难逃枯朽之命;

A lily of a day

五月之百合，

Is fairer far in may,

绽放一日，便有万种风情;

Although it fall and die that night—

纵然是夜凋零，

It was the plant and flower of light.

却是光华的落英;

In small proportions we just beauties see;

于细微处领略美丽，

And in short measures life may perfect be.

于残缺处完满生命。

I might be wise, I might be rich.I might be happy and piay on the beach.I might be a soldier, I might be a super star.But right now I must read books and study hard.翻译：我可能是明智的,我可以成为富足。我可能会开心和剧团里演戏在海滩上。我是一名战士,我可能会成为一个超级巨星。但是现在我必须读书,努力学习。

诗歌是一种典型的文学形式,它既属于文学,又是一种艺术。古今中外,对于诗歌的研究从未间断,我们在研究的过程中发现诗歌的美,同时又在前人研究的基础上创造出更好的诗歌作品。我精心收集了关于经典优美的英文诗歌，供大家欣赏学习!

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.

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.

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.