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學(xué)習(xí)啦 > 學(xué)習(xí)英語(yǔ) > 英語(yǔ)閱讀 > 英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌 > 關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌朗誦

關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌朗誦

時(shí)間: 韋彥867 分享

關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌朗誦

  英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌是英語(yǔ)語(yǔ)言與文學(xué)的精華。開(kāi)展英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌教學(xué)能提高學(xué)生英語(yǔ)語(yǔ)言基礎(chǔ)知識(shí)水平、寫(xiě)作水平,有助于學(xué)生西方歷史文化的學(xué)習(xí),提高學(xué)生的想象力,也有助于對(duì)學(xué)生的道德教育。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌,歡迎閱讀!

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌篇一

  Song of the Son

  by Jean Toomer

  Pour O pour that parting soul in song,

  O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,

  Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,

  And let the valley carry it along.

  And let the valley carry it along.

  O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,

  So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,

  Now just before an epoch's sun declines

  Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,

  Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.

  In time, for though the sun is setting on

  A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set;

  Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet

  To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,

  Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.

  O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,

  Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,

  Passing before they stripped the old tree bare

  One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes

  An everlasting song, a singing tree,

  Caroling softly souls of slavery,

  What they were, and what they are to me,

  Caroling softly souls of slavery.

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌篇二

  Song of Myself

  by John Canaday

  I am a stubborn ox dreaming

  of rain as the drover's fingers drum

  around my eyes. But no: the wet

  hum of flies distracted me,

  and now the plow has drifted from

  the line I meant to follow. See

  where the damp leather of the reins

  has worn the callus on my left

  forefinger raw? Or was it the dry,

  ash handle of my hoe? I can hear

  the steel head singing as it strikes

  rocky ground, the fresh-turned earth

  swallowing showers of sparks. The tip

  of my tongue goes dry. I touch my lips

  to the soil as I once touched you, here

  and there. A single knot of dirt

  crumbles slowly in my mouth

  with the taste of sweet butter dripping

  from your thumb. This ground will raise

  a heavy crop. I am the wheat

  that flowed around your waist like water.

  I am that lonely knot of earth.

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌篇三

  Song to Celia by Ben Jonson

  Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine;

  Or leave a kisse but in the cup,

  And Ile not looke for wine.

  The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,

  Doth aske a drinke divine:

  But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,

  I would not change for thine.

  I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,

  Not so much honoring thee,

  As giving it a hope, that there

  It could not withered bee.

  But thou thereon did'st onely breath,

  And sent'st it back to mee:

  Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,

  Not of it selfe, but thee.

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌篇四

  Songs for the People

  by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

  Let me make the songs for the people,

  Songs for the old and young;

  Songs to stir like a battle-cry

  Wherever they are sung.

  Not for the clashing of sabres,

  For carnage nor for strife;

  But songs to thrill the hearts of men

  With more abundant life.

  Let me make the songs for the weary,

  Amid life's fever and fret,

  Till hearts shall relax their tension,

  And careworn brows forget.

  Let me sing for little children,

  Before their footsteps stray,

  Sweet anthems of love and duty,

  To float o'er life's highway.

  I would sing for the poor and aged,

  When shadows dim their sight;

  Of the bright and restful mansions,

  Where there shall be no night.

  Our world, so worn and weary,

  Needs music, pure and strong,

  To hush the jangle and discords

  Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.

  Music to soothe all its sorrow,

  Till war and crime shall cease;

  And the hearts of men grown tender

  Girdle the world with peace.

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單英文詩(shī)歌篇五

  Sonnet for Salvadore

  by Gary Miranda

  Of Salvadore the Celery King I sing.

  Illiterate in Lewiston, he'd wander,

  so I'm told, into the ladies' john

  and, barring ladies, not suspect a thing.

  But when it came to celery, he was king.

  And when he died, the Idaho Daily Sun

  said: Salvadore the Celery King Moves On.

  The celery hung its head, remembering.

  Sometimes I think I'll wind down Lewiston Hill

  (where winding up and winding down's the same

  except for purpose), enter past the mill

  and, turning to face the crowd, announce my name:

  "Gary, son of Dom the son of Salvadore

  the King, whose throne I've come to claim."

  
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