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关于大学生英文诗歌篇1

The Teacher

by Hilarie Jones

I was twenty-six the first time I held

a human heart in my hand.

It was sixty-four and heavier than I expected，

its chambers slack;

and I was stupidly surprised

at how cold it was.

It was the middle of the third week

before I could look at her face，

before I could spend more than an hour

learning the secrets of cirrhosis，

the dark truth of diabetes， the black lungs

of the Marlboro woman， the exquisite

painful shape of kidney stones，

without eating an entire box of Altoids

to smother the smell of formaldehyde.

After seeing her face， I could not help

but wonder if she had a favorite color;

if she hated beets，

or loved country music before her hearing

faded， or learned to read

before cataracts placed her in perpetual twilight.

I wondered if her mother had once been happy

when she'd come home from school

or if she'd ever had a valentine from a secret admirer.

In the weeks that followed， I would

drive the highways， scanning billboards.

I would see her face， her eyes

squinting away the cigarette smoke，

or she would turn up at the bus stop

pushing a grocery cart of empty

beer cans and soda bottles. I wondered

if that was how she'd paid for all those smokes

or if the scars of repeated infections in her womb

spoke to a more universal currency.

Did she die， I wondered， in a cardboard box

under the Burnside Bridge， nursing a bottle

of strawberry wine， telling herself

she felt a little warmer now，

or in the Good Faith Shelter，

her few belongings safe under the sheet

held to her faltering heart?

Or in the emergency room， lying

on a wheeled gurney， the pitiless

lights above， the gauzy curtains around?

Did she ever wonder what it all was for?

I wish I could have told her in those days

what I've now come to know： that

it was for this——the baring

of her body on the stainless steel table——

that I might come to know its secrets

and， knowing them， might listen

to the machine-shop hum of aortic stenosis

in an old woman's chest， smile a little to myself

and， in gratitude to her who taught me，

put away my stethoscope， turn to my patient

and say Let's talk about your heart.

关于大学生英文诗歌篇2

The Three Times

by Alfred Corn

The first will no doubt begin with morning's

Stainless-steel manners and possibilities

Out of number. Sunlight scold too much?

So a tense gets thinned out with solvents，

Preternaturally bright with the will

To swap laziness or pleasure for paper money.

The future may appear as a winter day， colors

Of the facades like frozen jellies and sherbets，

Palaces of frost in crystalline order;

Then fall into shards at the approach of fact，

A needle of starlight aimed at your heart.

This one has all the force and danger of

Randomness： image drips into daydream

As waters gather to sea level and go

With the tide. Clouds. Chain lightning.

The waves move in like destroyers. And-

And only subside when， for example，

I stop to prove a cup off-center

In its saucer. A door closes， footsteps;

The night outside warm and silent

As an underground parking lot; askew stacks

Of books and papers; raw material;

Clues to a life. Because it's the time

Of pain-always the same-and pleasures：

Taste， touch， work， walking， music-not one

Of these trivial and all incomplete.

The last was always a famous storehouse;

Or you sit down before an amphittheater

Of tiered keyboards， repertory of stops;

To choose diapason. bourdon， vox humana-

A stone wall， the shadow of a leaf，

The gate I saw and then the grass

Running in place before the wind.

The place of the mind moved on， just

Failing to be everywhere at once;

And reconstructed an autumn afternoon

From the highest window， when the buildings

Forcing up against an imposed sky，

Fused into background， embraced the park，

Rested. The last baseball players

Swarmed around a tiny diamond template;

Man and his games a perfected miniature-

Like the past you almost don't believe in.

Yet it's there， behind perhaps a blue veil;

Sturdy; calm; unless put out of countenance

By drab standards of exactitude.

The last word was never， was always

About to be written; so that none of us

Could know whether hope， become action，

Exposed to the elements-a bronze monument，

Negligible among the surrounding towers，

But somehow truly central-would corrode，

Crumble， dissolve; or weather into

A fact of nature， continue to be

关于大学生英文诗歌篇3

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The tide rises， the tide falls，

The twilight darkens， the curlew calls;

Along the sea-sands damp and brown

The traveller hastens toward the town，

And the tide rises， the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls，

But the sea， the sea in darkness calls;

The little waves， with their soft， white hands，

Efface the footprints in the sands，

And the tide rises， the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh， as the hostler calls;

The day returns， but nevermore

Returns the traveller to the shore，

And the tide rises， the tide falls.