英文诗歌长篇简单大学长篇英文诗歌阅读

英文诗歌长篇简单大学长篇英文诗歌阅读大学长篇英文诗歌阅读大学长篇英文诗歌阅读 大学长篇英文诗歌阅读篇一 A Psalm of Life 人生礼颂 Herry Wadsworth Longfellow / 享利.沃兹渥斯.朗费罗 Tell me not in mournful numbers, 请别用哀伤的诗句对我讲; Life is but an empty dream! 人生呵，无非是虚梦一场! For the soul is dead that slumbers, 因为沉睡的灵魂如死一般， And things are not what they seem.事物的表里并不一样。 Life is real! Life is earnest! 人生是实在的!人生是热烈的! And the grave is not its goal; 人生的目的决不是坟墓; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 你是尘土，应归于尘土。 Was not spoken of the soul.此话指的并不是我们的精神。 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,我们的归宿并不是快乐， Is our destined and our way; 也不是悲伤， But to act, 实干 That much to-morrow.才是我们的道路， Find us farther than to-day.每天不断前进，蒸蒸蒸日上。 Art is long, and time is fleeting.光阴易逝，而艺海无涯， And our hearts, though stout and brave.我们的心哪虽然英勇坚强， Still, like muffled drums, are beating 却像被布蒙住的铜鼓， Funeral marches to the grave。 常把殡葬的哀乐擂响。 In the worlds broad field of battle, 在这人生的宿营地， In the bivouac of Life, 在这辽阔的世界战场， Be not like dumb, driven cattle!别做无言的家畜任人驱赶， Be a hero in the strife! 做一名英雄汉立马横枪! Trust no future.howeer pleasant! 别相信将来，哪怕将来多么欢乐! Let the dead Past bury its dead! 让死去的往昔将死亡一切埋葬! Act, act in the living Present! 上帝在上，我们胸怀勇气， Let us, then, be up and doing, 让我们起来干吧， With a heart for any fate; 下定决心，不管遭遇怎样; Still achieving, still pursuing 不断成功，不断追求， Learn to labour and to wait.要学会苦干和耐心等待 大学长篇英文诗歌阅读篇二 Churning Day Seamus Heaney A thk crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast, hardened gradually on of the four crocks that stood, large pottery bombs, in the small pantry.After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder, cool porous earthenware fermented the butter milk for churning day, when the hooped churn was scoured with plumping kettles and the busy scrubber echoed daintily on the seasoned wood.It stood then, purified, on the flagged kitchen floor.Out came the four crocks, spilled their heavy lip of cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn.The staff, like a great whiskey muddler fashioned in deal wood, was plunged in, the lid fitted.My mother took first turn, set up rhythms that, slugged and thumped for hours.Arms ached.Hands blistered.Cheeks and clothes were spattered with flabby milk.Where finally gold flecks began to dance.They poured hot water then, sterilized a birchwood bowl and little corrugated butter-spades.Their short stroke qukened, suddenly a yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white, heavy and rh, coagulated sunlight that they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer, heaped up like lded gravel in the bowl.The house would stink long after churning day, acrid as a sulphur mine.The empty crockswere ranged along the wall again, the butter in soft printed slabs was piled on pantry shelves.And in the house we moved with gravid ease, our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns, the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk, the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.大学长篇英文诗歌阅读篇三 For the Union Dead-Robert Lowell Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publam. The old South Boston Aquarium stands In a Sahara of snow now.Its broken dows are boarded.The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.The airy tanks are dry.Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass; my hand tingled to burst the bubbles drifting from the noses of the cowed, pliant fish.My hand draws back.I often sigh still for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom of the fish and reptile.One morning last March, I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized fence on the Boston mon.Behind their cage, yellow dinosaur shovels were grunting as they cropped up tons of mush and grass to gouge their underworld garage.Parking spaces luuriate like civ sandpiles in the heart of Boston.A rdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored rders braces the tingling Statehouse, shaking over the ecavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry on St.Gaudens shaking Civil War relief, propped by a plank splint against the garages earthquake.Two months after marching through Boston, half the rement was dead; at the dedation, William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.Their monument stks like a fishbone in the citys throat.Its Colonel is as lean as a pass-needle.He has an angry wrenlike vilance, a greyhounds gentle tautness; he seems to ce at pleasure, and suffocate for privacy.He is out of bounds now.He rejoes in mans lovely, peculiar power to choose life and die - when he leads his black soldiers to death, he cannot bend his back.On a thousand small town New England greens,the old white churches hold their air of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republ.The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier grow slimmer and younger each year - wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets and muse through their sideburnsShaws father wanted no monument ecept the ditch, where his sons body was thrown and lost with his niggers. The ditch is nearer.There are no statues for the last war here; on Boylston Street, a mercial photograph shows Hiroshima boiling over a Mosler Safe, the Rock of Ages that survived the blast.Space is nearer.When I crouch to my television set, the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.Colonel Shaw is riding on his bubble, he waits for the blessd break.The Aquarium is gone.Everywhere, ant finned cars nose forward like fish;a savage servility slides by on grease.第 4 页 共 4 页