英语文学中，诗歌极其丰富多彩，学英文而不懂英文诗歌，不仅从审美角度看是个遗憾，而且从语言学习角度看，学一些诗歌，语言能力会大大提高。小编整理了有关经典英文诗歌，欢迎阅读!

有关经典英文诗歌篇一

The Responsibility of Love

by G. E. Patterson

Where you are now， the only lights are stars

and oil lamps flaring on vine-covered porches.

Where you are now， it must be midnight.

No one has bothered to name all the roads

that overlook the sea. The freshened air

smells of myrtle and white jasmine. A church

stands on the headland， and I hope it might

keep one thought of me alive in your head.

Autumn is here： warm days becoming cold.

The trees drop more leaves， love， each time it rains.

I eat my meals with the TV turned on，

but softly so the neighbors won't complain.

The kilim is stained by the food I spilled

the first day——and the second——you were gone.

有关经典英文诗歌篇二

The Plaid Dress

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Strong sun， that bleach

The curtains of my room， can you not render

Colourless this dress I wear?——

This violent plaid

Of purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripe

Of thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds done

Through indolence high judgments given here in haste;

The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?

No more uncoloured than unmade，

I fear， can be this garment that I may not doff;

Confession does not strip it off，

To send me homeward eased and bare;

All through the formal， unoffending evening， under the clean

Bright hair，

Lining the subtle gown. . .it is not seen，

But it is there.

有关经典英文诗歌篇三

Central Park, Carousel

by Meena Alexander

June already， it's your birth month，

nine months since the towers fell.

I set olive twigs in my hair

torn from a tree in Central Park，

I ride a painted horse， its mane a sullen wonder.

You are behind me on a lilting mare.

You whisper——What of happiness?

Dukham， Federico. Smoke fills my eyes.

Young， I was raised to a sorrow song

short fires and stubble on a monsoon coast.

The leaves in your cap are very green.

The eyes of your mare never close.

Somewhere you wrote： Despedida.

If I die leave the balcony open!

有关经典英文诗歌篇四

The Poems I Have Not Written

by John Brehm

I'm so wildly unprolific， the poems

I have not written would reach

from here to the California coast

if you laid them end to end.

And if you stacked them up，

the poems I have not written

would sway like a silent

Tower of Babel， saying nothing

and everything in a thousand

different tongues. So moving， so

filled with and emptied of suffering，

so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth，

the poems I have not written

would break the hearts of every

woman who's ever left me，

make them eye their husbands

with a sharp contempt and hate

themselves for turning their backs

on the very source of beauty.

The poems I have not written

would compel all other poets

to ask of God： "Why do you

let me live? I am worthless.

please strike me dead at once，

destroy my works and cleanse

the earth of all my ghastly

imperfections." Trees would

bow their heads before the poems

I have not written. "Take me，"

they would say， "and turn me

into your pages so that I

might live forever as the ground

from which your words arise."

The wind itself， about which

I might have written so eloquently，

praising its slick and intersecting

rivers of air， its stately calms

and furious interrogations，

its flutelike lingerings and passionate

reproofs， would divert its course

to sweep down and then pass over

the poems I have not written，

and the life I have not lived， the life

I've failed even to imagine，

which they so perfectly describe.