大学长篇英文诗歌阅读
诗歌是一个国家语言的浓缩 ,它以最凝炼的文字传递了时间与空间、物质与精神、理智与情感 ,其中的文化因素是理解和欣赏诗歌的关键。下面是学习啦小编带来的大学长篇英文诗歌阅读，欢迎阅读!
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;
人生的目标决不是坟墓;
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——虽然勇敢坚强，
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 world’s 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!
别做无言的牲畜任人驱赶，
Be a hero in the strife!
做一名英雄汉立马横枪!
Trust no future. howe’er pleasant!
别相信未来，哪怕未来多么欢乐!
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
不断胜利，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 thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast,
hardened gradually on top 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 quickened, suddenly
a yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white,
heavy and rich, coagulated sunlight
that they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer,
heaped up like gilded gravel in the bowl.
The house would stink long after churning day,
acrid as a sulphur mine. The empty crocks
were 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 Publicam."
The old South Boston Aquarium stands
In a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows 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, compliant 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 Common. Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.
Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,
shaking over the excavations, 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 garage's earthquake.
Two months after marching through Boston,
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.
He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound's gentle tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.
He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's 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 Republic.
The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year -
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns...
Shaw's father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son's 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 commercial 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 blessèd break.
The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.
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