英文诗句经典

“诗是百花之蜜,一切学问的精髓,智慧的本质,天使的语言。”诗歌在人类语言发蒙之时就产生了,原始人在劳动过程中的呼声、祭祀过程中的歌词都可以成为诗歌。本文是经典唯美的英语诗句，希望对大家有帮助!

《公主》的深红的花瓣睡着了 阿尔弗雷德·丁尼生

Now sleeps the crimson petal,now the white;

深红的花瓣睡着了，然后是白色的

Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk

柏树也不在舞摆于宫苑小径

Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:

金鱼也不再炎眼于斑岩圣钵

The fire-fly wakens:waken thou with me

萤火虫醒来：唤醒了你和我

Now droops the milwhite peacock like a ghost

乳白色的孔雀幽灵般消沉

And like a ghost she glimmers on to me

她又幽灵般地向我闪着微光

Now lies the Earth all Danace to the stars

缀满星辰的苍穹笼罩着如达娜厄般恬息着的大地

And all thy heart lies open unto me

而你的心儿整个地向我开启

Now slides the silent meteor on,

流星悄然掠过，留下一道

and leaves a shining furrow,as thy thoughts in me

光亮辙印，犹似你留予我的思虑

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up

百合敛起她的全部芳馨

And slips into the bosom of the lake

潜入湖泊的中心

So fold thyself,my dearest,thou,

我的爱，你也这样敛起自己吧

and slip into my bosom and be lost in me

潜入我的心，随后迷失踪影

Oh，My love! My wife!

Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath.

Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

Thou are not conquered.

Beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks.

And death's pale flag is not advanced there.

Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?

O, what more favour can I do to thee,

Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain

To sunder his that was thine enemy?

Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,

Why art thou yet so fair?

Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous,

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?

For fear of that, I still will stay with thee;

And never from this palace of dim night depart again:

here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chamber-maids;

O, here will I set up my everlasting rest,

And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-wearied flesh.

Eyes, look your last!

Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips,

O you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss

A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot,

now at once run on the dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!

Here's to my love!

Let me put it this way:

if you came to lay your sleeping head against my arm or sleeve,

and if my arm went dead,or if I had to take my leave at midnight,

I should rather cleave it from the joint or seam

than make a scene or bring you round.

There,how does that sound?

好吧，我们不再一起漫游 拜伦

So we'll go no more a-roving

好吧，我们不再一起漫游，

So late into the night,

消磨这幽深的夜晚，

Though the heart still be as loving,

尽管这颗心仍旧迷恋，

And the moon still be as bright.

尽管月光还那么灿烂。

For the sword outwears its sheath,

因为利剑能够磨破剑鞘，

And the soul outwears the breast,

灵魂也把胸膛磨得够受，

And the heart must pause to breathe,

这颗心呵，它得停下来呼吸，

And love itself have rest.

爱情也得有歇息的时候。

Though the night was made for loving,

虽然夜晚为爱情而降临，

And the day returns too soon,

很快的，很快又是白昼，

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

我们已不再一起漫游。

By the light of the moon.

在这月光的世界

他不再为我等待，谁又能质疑他呢 A. E.豪斯曼

He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?

他不再为我等待，谁又能质疑他呢?

He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.

他不再为我驻足凝视

I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,

我与他握手道别，却已将内心撕裂

And went with half my life about my ways.

随之离去的，还有我一半的生命

泰戈尔的。够经典吧。The furthest distance in the world世界上最遥远的距离Is not between life and death不是生与死But when I stand in front of you而是 我就站在你面前Yet you don't know that I love you你却不知道我爱你The furthest distance in the world世界上最遥远的距离Is not when I stand in front of you不是 我就站在你面前Yet you can't see my love你却不知道我爱你But when undoubtedly knowing the love from both 而是 明明知道彼此相爱Yet cannot be together却不能在一起The furthest distance in the world 世界上最遥远的距离Is not being apart while being in love 不是 明明知道彼此相爱 却不能在一起But when painly can not resist the yearning 而是 明明无法抵挡这股思念Yet prending you have never been in my heart却还得故意装作丝毫没有把你放在心里The furthest distance in world 世界上最遥远的距离Is not but using one's different heart 不是 明明无法抵挡这股思念 却还得故意装作丝毫没有把你放在心里To dig an uncrossable river而是 用自己冷漠的心对爱你的人For the one who loves you掘了一条无法跨越的沟渠

诗歌朗读、学习诗歌、并进行诗歌创作和翻译过程中都是一种美的感受,能够让学生体会其特有的韵律美,尽情发挥想象,驰骋在诗歌的海洋中。我整理了优美经典的英文诗句，欢迎阅读!

Nothing Stays Put

by Amy Clampitt

In memory of Father Flye， 1884-1985

The strange and wonderful are too much with us.

The protea of the antipodes——a great，

globed， blazing honeybee of a bloom——

for sale in the supermarket! We are in

our decadence， we are not entitled.

What have we done to deserve

all the produce of the tropics——

this fiery trove， the largesse of it

heaped up like cannonballs， these pineapples， bossed

and crested， standing like troops at attention，

these tiers， these balconies of green， festoons

grown sumptuous with stoop labor?

The exotic is everywhere， it comes to us

before there is a yen or a need for it. The green-

grocers， uptown and down， are from South Korea.

Orchids， opulence by the pailful， just slightly

fatigued by the plane trip from Hawaii， are

disposed on the sidewalks; alstroemerias， freesias

fattened a bit in translation from overseas; gladioli

likewise estranged from their piercing ancestral crimson;

as well as， less altered from the original blue cornflower

of the roadsides and railway embankments of Europe， these

bachelor's buttons. But it isn't the railway embankments

their featherweight wheels of cobalt remind me of， it's

a row of them among prim colonnades of cosmos，

snapdragon， nasturtium， bloodsilk red poppies，

in my grandmother's garden： a prairie childhood，

the grassland shorn， overlaid with a grid，

unsealed， furrowed， harrowed and sown with immigrant grasses，

their massive corduroy， their wavering feltings embroidered

here and there by the scarlet shoulder patch of cannas

on a courthouse lawn， by a love knot， a cross stitch

of living matter， sown and tended by women，

nurturers everywhere of the strange and wonderful，

beneath whose hands what had been alien begins，

as it alters， to grow as though it were indigenous.

But at this remove what I think of as

strange and wonderful， strolling the side streets of Manhattan

on an April afternoon， seeing hybrid pear trees in blossom，

a tossing， vertiginous colonnade of foam， up above——

is the white petalfall， the warm snowdrift

of the indigenous wild plum of my childhood.

Nothing stays put. The world is a wheel.

All that we know， that we're

made of， is motion

Outside

by Michael Ryan

The dead thing mashed into the street

the crows are squabbling over isn't

her， nor are their raucous squawks

the quiet cawing from her throat

those final hours she couldn't speak.

But the racket irks him.

It seems a cruel intrusion into grief

so mute it will never be expressed

no matter how loud or long the wailing

he might do. Nor could there be a word

that won't debase it， no matter

how kind or who it comes from.

She knew how much he loved her.

That must be his consolation

when he must talk to buy necessities.

Every place will be a place without her.

What people will see when they see him

pushing a shopping cart or fetching mail

is just a neatly dressed polite old man

Outside Abilene

by Harley Elliott

the full rage of kansas turns loose upon us.

On the mexican radio station

they are singing Espiritu de mis suenos

and that is exactly it tonight.

The spirit of my dreams

rises in the storm like vapor.

Deep clouds bulge together and below them

we are a tiny constellation of lights

the car laid under sheets of lightning

moving straight in to the night.

Before us are miles and miles of water and wind

Outskirts

by Tomas Transtromer (Translated by Robert Bly)

Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch.

It's a transitional place， in stalemate， neither country nor city.

Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap，

but the clocks are against it.

Concrete piping scattered around laps at the light with cold tongues.

Auto-body shops occupy old barns.

Stones throw shadows as sharp as objects on the moon surface.

And these sites keep on getting bigger

like the land bought with Judas' silver： "a potter's field for burying strangers."

Ox Cart Manby Donald Hall

In October of the year，

he counts potatoes dug from the brown field，

counting the seed， counting

the cellar's portion out，

and bags the rest on the cart's floor.

He packs wool sheared in April， honey

in combs， linen， leather

tanned from deerhide，

and vinegar in a barrel

hoped by hand at the forge's fire.

He walks by his ox's head， ten days

to Portsmouth Market， and sells potatoes，

and the bag that carried potatoes，

flaxseed， birch brooms， maple sugar， goose

feathers， yarn.

When the cart is empty he sells the cart.

When the cart is sold he sells the ox，

harness and yoke， and walks

home， his pockets heavy

with the year's coin for salt and taxes，

and at home by fire's light in November cold

stitches new harness

for next year's ox in the barn，

and carves the yoke， and saws planks

building the cart again