世界上最美的英文詩歌
英語詩歌是一個包含豐富社會生活內容和藝術內涵的世界 ,欣賞它 ,有多種方法 ,如對比法 ,背景分析法 ,藝術分析法等等。小編精心收集了世界上最美的英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!
Lady Lazarus
by Sylvia Plath
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle， my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade，
My right foot
A paperweight，
My face a featureless， fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——
The nose， the eye pits， the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon， soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen， ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone，
Nevertheless， I am the same， identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art， like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place， the same face， the same brute Amused shout：
'A miracle!' That knocks me out.
There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars， there is a charge For the hearing of my heart It really goes.
And there is a charge， a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So， so， Herr Doktor.
So， Herr Enemy.
I am your opus，
I am your valuable，
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash， ash You poke and stir.
Flesh， bone， there is nothing there
A cake of soap，
A wedding ring，
A gold filling.
Herr God， Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air
世界上最美的英文詩歌篇2My Psychic
by James Kimbrell
has a giant hand diagrammed in front of her place
on West Tennessee.
It towers above a kudzu hill as if
to offer a cosmic How!
as in Hello! from a long
way off， as in how
she already knows
the sundry screwed up ways a day
can go days before
I park my wreck on the hill again beside
her white Mercedes.
O little slice of Lebanon!
O cedar scented
cards fanned like feathers
of a Byzantine peacock!
Tell me again how I might have been a fine lawyer，
that I'll raise four kids in Tallahassee，
how I married-it's true-on my lunch break-Yez
she took you to lunch okay a zeven year lunch ha ha!
Incense. Mini-shrine.
A wagon train of chihuahuas snoozing by her slippers.
You have anxious about a furniture… I do.
But lately I've grown cold，
unconsoled by her extrasensory view.
I think no need to speak-across
the black tabletop， I don't want to know
if I'll find a bright city，
a room by the river， a love
I will recognize
by her dragonfly
tattoo. O narrative of ether!
O non-refundable
life facts! say that what happens may not matter，
or that it matters as any
story does when two fresh lovers
embrace the old pact
(her bra on the chair，
his socks in the kitchen) that says
their love is level，
unfabled， new. Level with me，
tell me why the dogs on the floor，
little moon fed hounds of Delphi， seem so over it，
so done with the fleas of destiny.
Maybe that's the right attitude，
no need to ask why I'm here on a perfectly blue Friday，
content with what the thin air，
what the dust motes in the light say near the high window.
I should've learned that music long ago
O soundless number!
O jukebox of being that the dogs dream to!
No faux crystal ball，
no tea leaves or terrace in the nether
reaches of my palm
will make her answers
less like hocus pocus in a purchased dark.
It's time to pay， to drive away
from telepathic altitudes， to say adieu
to why love ends. How
How a heart opens again.
Why anything is true.
世界上最美的英文詩歌篇3Laddersby Ben Jonson
I now think love is rather deaf， than blind，
For else it could not be，
That she，
Whom I adore so much， should so slight me，
And cast my love behind：
I'm sure my language was as sweet，
And every close did meet
In sentence of as subtle feet
As hath the youngest he，
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
Oh， but my conscious fears，
That fly my thoughts between，
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundreds of gray hairs，
Told seven and forty years，
Read so much waist， as she cannot embrace
My mountain belly and my rock face，
As all these， through her eyes， have stopt her ears
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