诗歌是一种典型的文学形式,它既属于文学,又是一种艺术。古今中外,对于诗歌的研究从未间断,我们在研究的过程中发现诗歌的美,同时又在前人研究的基础上创造出更好的诗歌作品。小编精心收集了关于经典优美的英文诗歌，供大家欣赏学习!

关于经典优美的英文诗歌篇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.

关于经典优美的英文诗歌篇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.

关于经典优美的英文诗歌篇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.