詩歌是一種典型的文學形式,它既屬于文學,又是一種藝術。古今中外,對于詩歌的研究從未間斷,我們在研究的過程中發(fā)現(xiàn)詩歌的美,同時又在前人研究的基礎上創(chuàng)造出更好的詩歌作品。小編精心收集了關于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!

　　關于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇1

　　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.

　　關于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇2

　　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.

　　關于經(jīng)典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇3

　　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.

　　
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