爱华网英语文学中，诗歌极其丰富多彩，学英文而不懂英文诗歌，不仅从审美角度看是个遗憾，而且从语言学习角度看，学一些诗歌，语言能力会大大提高。小编整理了有关经典英文诗歌，欢迎阅读!
有关经典英文诗歌篇一
The Responsibility of Love
by G. E. Patterson
Where you are now， the only lights are stars
and oil lamps flaring on vine-covered porches.
Where you are now， it must be midnight.
No one has bothered to name all the roads
that overlook the sea. The freshened air
smells of myrtle and white jasmine. A church
stands on the headland， and I hope it might
keep one thought of me alive in your head.
Autumn is here： warm days becoming cold.
The trees drop more leaves， love， each time it rains.
I eat my meals with the TV turned on，
but softly so the neighbors won't complain.
The kilim is stained by the food I spilled
the first day——and the second——you were gone.
有关经典英文诗歌篇二
The Plaid Dress
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Strong sun， that bleach
The curtains of my room， can you not render
Colourless this dress I wear?——
This violent plaid
Of purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripe
Of thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds done
Through indolence high judgments given here in haste;
The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?
No more uncoloured than unmade，
I fear， can be this garment that I may not doff;
Confession does not strip it off，
To send me homeward eased and bare;
All through the formal， unoffending evening， under the clean
Bright hair，
Lining the subtle gown. . .it is not seen，
But it is there.
有关经典英文诗歌篇三
Central Park, Carousel
by Meena Alexander
June already， it's your birth month，
nine months since the towers fell.
I set olive twigs in my hair
torn from a tree in Central Park，
I ride a painted horse， its mane a sullen wonder.
You are behind me on a lilting mare.
You whisper——What of happiness?
Dukham， Federico. Smoke fills my eyes.
Young， I was raised to a sorrow song
short fires and stubble on a monsoon coast.
The leaves in your cap are very green.
The eyes of your mare never close.
Somewhere you wrote： Despedida.
If I die leave the balcony open!
有关经典英文诗歌篇四
The Poems I Have Not Written
by John Brehm
I'm so wildly unprolific， the poems
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.
And if you stacked them up，
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel， saying nothing
and everything in a thousand
different tongues. So moving， so
filled with and emptied of suffering，
so steeped in the music of a voice
speechless before the truth，
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who's ever left me，
make them eye their husbands
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.
The poems I have not written
would compel all other poets
to ask of God： "Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.
please strike me dead at once，
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections." Trees would
bow their heads before the poems
I have not written. "Take me，"
they would say， "and turn me
into your pages so that I
might live forever as the ground
from which your words arise."
The wind itself， about which
I might have written so eloquently，
praising its slick and intersecting
rivers of air， its stately calms
and furious interrogations，
its flutelike lingerings and passionate
reproofs， would divert its course
to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written，
and the life I have not lived， the life
I've failed even to imagine，
which they so perfectly describe.
