爱华网文学是一种语言艺术,诗歌又历来被视作文学的最高形式。学习英语诗歌不但有助于开阔视野,陶冶性情,而且对于英语学习有很大帮助。小编整理了长篇经典英文诗歌，欢迎阅读!
长篇经典英文诗歌篇一
Charlotte Brontë in Leeds Point
by Stephen Dunn
From her window marshland stretched for miles.
If not for egrets and gulls， it reminded her of the moors
behind the parsonage， how the fog often hovered
and descended as if sheltering some sweet compulsion
the age was not ready to see. On clear days the jagged
skyline of Atlantic City was visible——Atlantic City，
where all compulsions had a home.
"Everything's too easy now，" she said to her neighbor，
"nothing resisted， nothing gained." Once， at eighteen，
she dreamed of London's proud salons glowing
with brilliant fires and dazzling chandeliers.
Already her own person——passionate， assertive——
soon she'd create a governess insistent on rights equal
to those above her rank. "The dangerous picture
of a natural heart，" one offended critic carped.
She'd failed， he said， to let religion reign
over the passions and， worse， she was a woman.
Now she was amazed at what women had，
doubly amazed at what they didn't.
But she hadn't come back to complain or haunt.
Her house on the bay was modest， adequate.
长篇经典英文诗歌篇二
The Present Writer
by Coner O'Callaghan
answers questions vaguely， as if from distance，
cares less for the dribs and drabs of his libido;
gets more droll， lachrymose， implicit with age;
has backed from the room， the turntable moving
and a refill pad lying open at the page
with 'swansong' and 'glockenspiel' written on it;
makes collect calls from payphones， lost for words;
has been known to sleep in the rear seat
on the hard shoulder， the hazards ticking;
is given to sudden floods of hope; still dreams
of swimming pools， in sepia; can take or leave
a life in shadow; will whoop out of the blue
and surface on the landing， fork and spoon in hand，
adrift of what the done thing was; doodles butterflies
on the envelopes of unread letters; travels happiest
towards daylight and fancies pigeons; gets a kick
inhabiting the third person， as if talking across himself
or forever clapping his own exits from the wings.
长篇经典英文诗歌篇三
The Potato
by Joseph Stroud
Three days into the journey
I lost the Inca Trail
and scrambled around the Andes
in a growing panic
when on a hillside below snowline
I met a farmer who pointed the way——
Machu Picchu allá， he said.
He knew where I wanted to go.
From my pack I pulled out an orange.
It seemed to catch fire
in that high blue Andean sky.
I gave it to him.
He had been digging in a garden，
turning up clumps of earth，
some odd， misshapen nuggets，
some potatoes.
He handed me one，
a potato the size of the orange
looking as if it had been in the ground
a hundred years，
a potato I carried with me
until at last I stood gazing down
on the Urubamba valley，
peaks rising out of the jungle into clouds，
and there among the mists
was the Temple of the Sun
and the Lost City of the Incas.
Looking back now， all these years later，
what I remember most，
what matters to me most，
was that farmer， alone on his hillside，
who gave me a potato，
a potato with its peasant face，
its lumps and lunar craters，
a potato that fit perfectly in my hand，
a potato that consoled me as I walked，
told me not to fear，
held me close to the earth，
the potato I put in a pot that night，
the potato I boiled above Machu Picchu，
the patient， gnarled potato
I ate.
