英语诗歌的特点和其他语言诗歌的特点一样,都是形象的语言和富于音乐性的语言。小编精心收集了关于好的英文诗词，供大家欣赏学习!

关于好的英文诗词篇1

The Weary Blues

by Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune，

Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon，

I heard a Negro play.

Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

He did a lazy sway . . .

He did a lazy sway . . .

To the tune o' those Weary Blues.

With his ebony hands on each ivory key

He made that poor piano moan with melody.

O Blues!

Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

Sweet Blues!

Coming from a black man's soul.

O Blues!

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

I heard that Negro sing， that old piano moan——

"Ain't got nobody in all this world，

Ain't got nobody but ma self.

I's gwine to quit ma frownin'

And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump， thump， thump， went his foot on the floor.

He played a few chords then he sang some more——

"I got the Weary Blues

And I can't be satisfied.

Got the Weary Blues

And can't be satisfied——

I ain't happy no mo'

And I wish that I had died."

And far into the night he crooned that tune.

The stars went out and so did the moon.

The singer stopped playing and went to bed

While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

关于好的英文诗词篇2

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.

关于好的英文诗词篇3

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.

关于好的英文诗词篇4

Constellations

by Steven Heighton

After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser

and peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped

gable-wall， dimming the night vault of her ceiling

like a haze or the interfering glow

of a great city， small hands anticipating

eons as they raided the playful patterns

her father had mapped for her - black holes now

where the raised thumb-stubs and ears of the Bat

had been， the feet of the Turtle， wakeful

eyes of the Mourning Dove. She stuck those paper

stars on herself. One on each foot， the backs

of her hands， navel， tip of nose and so on，

then turned on the lamp by her bed and stood close

like a child chilled after a winter bath

pressed up to an air duct or a radiator

until those paper stars absorbed more light

than they could hold. Then turned off the lamp，

walked out into the dark hallway and called.

Her father came up. He heard her breathing

as he clomped upstairs preoccupied， wrenched

out of a rented film just now taking grip

on him and the child's mother， his day-end

bottle of beer set carefully on the stairs，

marking the trail back down into that evening

adult world - he could hear her breathing (or

really， more an anxious， breathy giggle) but

couldn't see her， then in the hallway stopped，

mind spinning to sort the apparition

of fireflies hovering ahead， till he sensed

his daughter and heard in her breathing

the pent， grave concentration of her pose，

mapped onto the star chart of the darkness，

arms stretched high， head back， one foot slightly raised -

the Dancer， he supposed， and all his love

spun to centre with crushing force， to find her

momentarily fixed， as unchanging

as he and her mother must seem to her，

and the way the stars are; as if the stars are.