文学是一种语言艺术,诗歌又历来被视作文学的最高形式。学习英语诗歌不但有助于开阔视野,陶冶性情,而且对于英语学习有很大帮助。小编精心收集了最好的优美英文诗精选，供大家欣赏学习!

最好的优美英文诗精选篇1

This Work

by Martha Zweig

The cold orange hands of the salamanders still wrap

and unwrap the baby he dreams he was

then long before there was any human family.

Then their work was just beginning on the

damp stones and mosses too.

He had to be as little strange as possible.

They were making the world & working on him too.

He was warmer but less strange than a moss or a stone was，

that saved him.

The moss worked on the stone too.

The stone worked on him like a mind

he had to grow up to talk to or

dream to but without turning strange.

The cold hands run over him.

They read the body he dreams of as a baby's to the stone.

Before there was any human family the work

that make him was this work just beginning.

最好的优美英文诗精选篇2

This Was Once a Love Poem

by Jane Hirshfield

This was once a love poem，

before its haunches thickened， its breath grew short，

before it found itself sitting，

perplexed and a little embarrassed，

on the fender of a parked car，

while many people passed by without turning their heads.

It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.

It remembers choosing these shoes，this scarf or tie.

Once， it drank beer for breakfast，drifted its feet

in a river side by side with the feet of another.

Once it pretended shyness， then grew truly shy，

dropping its head so the fair would fall forward，

so the eyes would not be seen.

IT spoke with passion of history， of art.

It was lovely then， this poem.

Under its chin， no fold of skin softened.

Behind the knees， no pad of yellow fat.

What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.

An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows， its cheeks.

The longing has not diminished.

Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat，

the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.

Yes， it decides：

Many miniature cacti， in blue and red painted pots.

When it finds itself disquieted

by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life，

it will touch them—one， then another

with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.

最好的优美英文诗精选篇3

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold，

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering， breaking.

When the rooms were warm， he'd call，

and slowly I would rise and dress，

fearing the chronic angers of that house，

Speaking indifferently to him，

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know， what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

最好的优美英文诗精选篇4

The Weakness

by Toi Derricotte

That time my grandmother dragged me

through the perfume aisles at Saks，

she held me up by my arm，

hissing， "Stand up，"

through clenched teeth，

her eyes bright as a dog's

cornered in the light.

She said it over and over，

as if she were Jesus，and I were dead.

She had been solid as a tree，

a fur around her neck，

a light-skinned matron whose car was parked，

who walked on swirling marble

and passed through brass openings——in 1945.

There was not even a black elevator operator at Saks.

The saleswoman had brought velvet leggings to lace me in，

and cooed， as if in service of all grandmothers.

My grandmother had smiled，but not hungrily，

not like my mother who hated them， but wanted to please，

and they had smiled back，

as if they were wearing wooden collars.

When my legs gave out，

my grandmother ragged me up and held me like God

holds saints by the roots of the hair.

I begged her to believe I couldn't help it.

Stumbling， her face white with sweat，

she pushed me through the crowd，

rushing away from those eyes that saw through er clothes，

under her skin， all the way down to the transparent genes confessing.

最好的优美英文诗精选篇5

Consolation Miracle

by Chad Davidson

In the pewless church of San Juan Chula，

a Neocatholic Tzozil Indian

wrings a chicken's neck. Through pi?oned air，

stars from tourist flashbulbs flame， reflecting

in the reddened eyes， in the mirrors

statuary cling to， inside their plate-

glass boxes. A mother fills a shot-

glass with fire. Others offer up moon-

shine swelling in goat bladders， the slender

throats of coke bottles， as if gods too thirsted

for the real thing. The slightest angle

of a satellite dish sends me to Florida，

where the sleepless claim the stars talk

too much. They stumble to their own

worn Virgin Mary whose eyes， they swear，

bleed. Florida： rising with its dead，

even as it sinks into the glade.

Meanwhile， a coast away， the heavenly gait

of Bigfoot in the famous Super-8，

voiced over with a cyrptozoologist

who's all but laughed at the zipper-lined torso.

Bigfoot trails out of California

into my living room， a miracle

in the muddled middle ground of the event

horizon， in the swell between each seismic wave

where time carries itself like Bigfoot： heavy，

awkward， a touch too real to be real.

And the miracle cleaners make everything

disappear into faintly floral scents.

Miracle-starved， out of sleep or the lack of it.

I keep watching， not to see Bigfoot

but to be Bigfoot， trapse through grainy screens，

and the countless watching eyes， the brilliant

nebulae bleeding. Yeti， pray

you come again， you Sasquatch. Video

our world for your religions. Memorize

all these pleasure bulbs， these satellites，

our eyes， our stars. Look： how we turn

each other on tonight， one at a time.