英语诗歌是英美文学中的珍宝。在英美文学中,尤其是早期作品中,如史诗及戏剧都是以诗歌的形式出现。小编精心收集了简单好背的英文诗歌，供大家欣赏学习!

简单好背的英文诗歌篇1

Salt

by Ander Monson

It covers everything， a glossy January rind

along tires. Sunny days have brought it out，

burned away the ice， left

the calcified tidelines to gloat

on the hoods and sun-warm trunks

of cars queued up along the curb，

parking close as they can get

to each other， to the raised

sidewalk that's buried

beneath the dirt crust next to the neon-lit

sign for the funeral home.

The body of the boy we knew is still

inside， the cheeks teased

back to cheery life with rouge.

The ice on the canal

the faulty floor through which he descended

blazing on the back of his Arctic Cat

is black as slate

which means it's thin

and boys on the shore

throw aimless stones that yield

ricochets with laser sounds.

The outdoor rink is bare， festooned

with bits of the Canadian flag

fragments of the maple leaf

glistening starlike after storm.

简单好背的英文诗歌篇2

San Antonio

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Tonight I lingered over your name，

the delicate assembly of vowels

a voice inside my head.

You were sleeping when I arrived.

I stood by your bed

and watched the sheets rise gently.

I knew what slant of light

would make you turn over.

It was then I felt

the highways slide out of my hands.

I remembered the old men

in the west side cafe，

dealing dominoes like magical charms.

It was then I knew，

like a woman looking backward，

I could not leave you，

or find anyone I loved more.

简单好背的英文诗歌篇3

Salvage

by Amy Clampitt

Daily the cortege of crumpled

defunct cars

goes by by the lasagna-

layered flatbed

truckload： hardtop

reverting to tar smudge，

wax shine antiqued to crusted

winepress smear，

windshield battered to

intact ice-tint， a rarity

fresh from the Pleistocene.

I like it; privately

I find esthetic

satisfaction in these

ceremonial removals

from the category of

received ideas

to regions where pigeons'

svelte smoke-velvet

limousines， taxiing

in whirligigs， reclaim

a parking lot，

and the bag-laden

hermit woman， disencumbered

of a greater incubus，

the crush of unexamined

attitudes， stoutly

follows her routine，

mining the mountainsides

of our daily refuse

for artifacts： subversive

re-establishing

with each arcane

trash-basket dig

the pleasures of the ruined.

简单好背的英文诗歌篇4

San Francisco Night Windows

by Robert Penn Warren

So hangs the hour like fruit fullblown and sweet，

Our strict and desperate avatar，

Despite that antique westward gulls lament

Over enormous waters which retreat

Weary unto the white and sensual star.

Accept these images for what they are——

Out of the past a fragile element

Of substance into accident.

I would speak honestly and of a full heart;

I would speak surely for the tale is short，

And the soul's remorseless catalogue

Assumes its quick and piteous sum.

Think you， hungry is the city in the fog

Where now the darkened piles resume

Their framed and frozen prayer

Articulate and shafted in the stone

Against the void and absolute air.

If so the frantic breath could be forgiven，

And the deep blood subdued before it is gone

In a savage paternoster to the stone，

Then might we all be shriven.

简单好背的英文诗歌篇5

San Sepolcro

by Jorie Graham

In this blue light

I can take you there，

snow having made me

a world of bone

seen through to. This

is my house，

my section of Etruscan

wall， my neighbor's

lemontrees， and， just below

the lower church，

the airplane factory.

A rooster

crows all day from mist

outside the walls.

There's milk on the air，

ice on the oily

lemonskins. How clean

the mind is，

holy grave. It is this girl

by Piero

della Francesca， unbuttoning

her blue dress，

her mantle of weather，

to go into

labor. Come， we can go in.

It is before

the birth of god. No one

has risen yet

to the museums， to the assembly

line——bodies

and wings——to the open air

market. This is

what the living do： go in.

It's a long way.

And the dress keeps opening

from eternity

to privacy， quickening.

Inside， at the heart，

is tragedy， the present moment

forever stillborn，

but going in， each breath

is a button

coming undone， something terribly

nimble-fingered

finding all of the stops.