大學(xué)長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌閱讀
詩(shī)歌是一個(gè)國(guó)家語(yǔ)言的濃縮 ,它以最凝煉的文字傳遞了時(shí)間與空間、物質(zhì)與精神、理智與情感 ,其中的文化因素是理解和欣賞詩(shī)歌的關(guān)鍵。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編帶來(lái)的大學(xué)長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌閱讀，歡迎閱讀!
大學(xué)長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌閱讀篇一
A Psalm of Life 人生禮頌
Herry Wadsworth Longfellow / 享利.沃茲渥斯.朗費(fèi)羅
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
請(qǐng)別用哀傷的詩(shī)句對(duì)我講;
Life is but an empty dream!
人生呵，無(wú)非是虛夢(mèng)一場(chǎng)!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
因?yàn)槌了撵`魂如死一般，
And things are not what they seem.
事物的表里并不一樣。
Life is real! Life is earnest!
人生是實(shí)在的!人生是熱烈的!
And the grave is not its goal;
人生的目標(biāo)決不是墳?zāi)?
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
你是塵土，應(yīng)歸于塵土。
Was not spoken of the soul.
此話指的并不是我們的精神。
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
我們的歸宿并不是快樂(lè)，
Is our destined and our way;
也不是悲傷，
But to act,
實(shí)干
That much to-morrow.
才是我們的道路，
Find us farther than to-day.
每天不斷前進(jìn)，蒸蒸蒸日上。
Art is long, and time is fleeting.
光陰易逝，而藝海無(wú)涯，
And our hearts, though stout and brave.
我們的心哪——雖然勇敢堅(jiān)強(qiáng)，
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
卻像被布蒙住的銅鼓，
Funeral marches to the grave。
常把殯葬的哀樂(lè)擂響。
In the world’s broad field of battle,
在這人生的宿營(yíng)地，
In the bivouac of Life,
在這遼闊的世界戰(zhàn)場(chǎng)，
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
別做無(wú)言的牲畜任人驅(qū)趕，
Be a hero in the strife!
做一名英雄漢立馬橫槍!
Trust no future. howe’er pleasant!
別相信未來(lái)，哪怕未來(lái)多么歡樂(lè)!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
讓死去的往昔將死亡一切埋葬!
Act, act in the living Present!
上帝在上，我們胸懷勇氣，
Let us, then, be up and doing,
讓我們起來(lái)干吧，
With a heart for any fate;
下定決心，不管遭遇怎樣;
Still achieving, still pursuing
不斷勝利，不斷追求，
Learn to labour and to wait.
要學(xué)會(huì)苦干和耐心等待
大學(xué)長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌閱讀篇二
Churning Day
Seamus Heaney
A thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast,
hardened gradually on top of the four crocks
that stood, large pottery bombs, in the small pantry.
After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder,
cool porous earthenware fermented the butter milk
for churning day, when the hooped churn was scoured
with plumping kettles and the busy scrubber
echoed daintily on the seasoned wood.
It stood then, purified, on the flagged kitchen floor.
Out came the four crocks, spilled their heavy lip
of cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn.
The staff, like a great whiskey muddler fashioned
in deal wood, was plunged in, the lid fitted.
My mother took first turn, set up rhythms
that, slugged and thumped for hours. Arms ached.
Hands blistered. Cheeks and clothes were spattered
with flabby milk.
Where finally gold flecks
began to dance. They poured hot water then,
sterilized a birchwood bowl
and little corrugated butter-spades.
Their short stroke quickened, suddenly
a yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white,
heavy and rich, coagulated sunlight
that they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer,
heaped up like gilded gravel in the bowl.
The house would stink long after churning day,
acrid as a sulphur mine. The empty crocks
were ranged along the wall again, the butter
in soft printed slabs was piled on pantry shelves.
And in the house we moved with gravid ease,
our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns,
the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk,
the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.
大學(xué)長(zhǎng)篇英文詩(shī)歌閱讀篇三
For the Union Dead-Robert Lowell
"Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam."
The old South Boston Aquarium stands
In a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.
My hand draws back. I often sigh still
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized
fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.
Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,
shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw
and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry
on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.
Two months after marching through Boston,
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.
He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound's gentle tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.
He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely,
peculiar power to choose life and die -
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.
On a thousand small town New England greens,
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.
The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year -
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns...
Shaw's father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son's body was thrown
and lost with his "niggers."
The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here;
on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling
over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"
that survived the blast. Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.
Colonel Shaw
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the blessèd break.
The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.
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