英语诗歌作为文学的表现形式之一,在分类、节奏、韵律、构思、词序、选词等方面都自成体系,以自己独特的形式展示着诗人对生活的理解。小编整理了关于好的英文诗歌，欢迎阅读!

关于好的英文诗歌篇一

Continued

by Piotr Sommer

Nothing will be the same as it was，

even enjoying the same things

won't be the same. Our sorrows

will differ one from the other and we

will differ one from the other in our worries.

And nothing will be the same as it was，

nothing at all. Simple thoughts will sound

different， newer， since they'll be more simply， more newly

spoken. The heart will know how to open up and love

won't be love anymore. Everything will change.

Nothing will be the same as it was

and that too will be new somehow， since after all，

before， things could be similar： morning，

the rest of the day， evening and night， but not now.

关于好的英文诗歌篇二

The White Room

by Charles Simic

The obvious is difficult

To prove. Many prefer

The hidden. I did， too.

I listened to the trees.

They had a secret

Which they were about to

Make known to me——

And then didn't.

Summer came. Each tree

On my street had its own

Scheherazade. My nights

Were a part of their wild

Storytelling. We were

Entering dark houses，

Always more dark houses，

Hushed and abandoned.

There was someone with eyes closed

On the upper floors.

The fear of it， and the wonder，

Kept me sleepless.

The truth is bald and cold，

Said the woman

Who always wore white.

She didn't leave her room.

The sun pointed to one or two

Things that had survived

The long night intact.

The simplest things，

Difficult in their obviousness.

They made no noise.

It was the kind of day

People described as "perfect."

Gods disguising themselves

As black hairpins， a hand-mirror，

A comb with a tooth missing?

No! That wasn't it.

Just things as they are，

Unblinking， lying mute

In that bright light——

And the trees waiting for the night.

关于好的英文诗歌篇三

Continuity

by A. R. Ammons

I've pressed so

far away from

my desire that

if you asked

me what I

want I would，

accepting the harmonious

completion of the

drift， say annihilation，

probably.

关于好的英文诗歌篇四

The Wine-Drinkers

by Tennessee Williams

The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun.

Their lack of success in love has made them torpid.

They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather，

the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.

Let us commend them on their conversations.

One says "oh" and the other says "indeed."

The afternoon must be prolonged forever，

because the night will be impossible for them.

They know that the bright and very delicate needles

inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins

will work after dark—at present are drugged， are dormant.

Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance.

One says "no，" the other one murmurs "why?"

The cousins pause： tumescent.

What do they dream of? Murder?

They dream of lust and they long for violent action but none occurs.

Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum

The light is empty： the sun forestalls reflection.

关于好的英文诗歌篇五

The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood'

by Agha Shahid Ali

First， grant me my sense of history：

I did it for posterity，

for kindergarten teachers

and a clear moral：

Little girls shouldn't wander off

in search of strange flowers，

and they mustn't speak to strangers.

And then grant me my generous sense of plot：

Couldn't I have gobbled her up

right there in the jungle?

Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?

As if I， a forest-dweller，

didn't know of the cottage

under the three oak trees

and the old woman lived there

all alone?

As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before?

And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf，

now my only reputation.

But I was no child-molester

though you'll agree she was pretty.

And the huntsman：

Was I sleeping while he snipped

my thick black fur

and filled me with garbage and stones?

I ran with that weight and fell down，

simply so children could laugh

at the noise of the stones

cutting through my belly，

at the garbage spilling out

with a perfect sense of timing，

just when the tale

should have come to an end.