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关于经典英文诗词篇1
The Pumpkin
by John Greenleaf Whittier
Oh， greenly and fair in the lands of the sun，
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run，
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold，
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold，
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew，
While he waited to know that his warning was true，
And longed for the storm-cloud， and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North，
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth，
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines，
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day， when from East and from West，
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more，
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye，
What calls back the past， like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh， fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling，
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild， ugly faces we carved in its skin，
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap， with hearts all in tune，
Our chair a broad pumpkin， - our lantern the moon，
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach， with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine，
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking， than thine!
And the prayer， which my mouth is too full to express，
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less，
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below，
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow，
And thy life be as sweet， and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
关于经典英文诗词篇2
The Question of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
by Barbara Hurd
A teacher at the chalkboard turns
and imagines pushing desks
together， lowering her body
onto the one whose question
about character and conflict
still lingers in his mouth.
Behind a curtain of textbook and chalk，
she shudders thick and shaded
inside Jekyll's bones， spine twisting in the hands
of what she thought she'd turned to ash
by the heat of her good intentions.
She unbuttons the hugeness of his coat，
hears her voice gone dwarfish and husky，
feels Jekyll's nausea in her mouth，
Hyde's lust grinding in her molars
while stage crews haul away bridges，
drag in back alleys
and the curtain begins to rise.
It's moments like this，
the director gone for coffee，
stage crew caught with their arms full，
when we know what rises in us unbidden
is woven to us，
more intimate than a lover.
关于经典英文诗词篇3
The Red Poppy
by Louise Glück
The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings：
oh， I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun， and open
for him， showing him
the fire of my own heart， fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters，
were you like me once， long ago，
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once， who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered
关于经典英文诗词篇4
The Republic
by Paul Mariani
Midnight. For the past three hours
I've raked over Plato's Republic
with my students， all of them John
Jay cops， and now some of us
have come to Rooney's to unwind.
Boilermakers. Double shots and triples.
Fitzgerald's still in his undercover
clothes and giveaway white socks， and two
lieutenants——Seluzzi in the sharkskin suit
& D'Ambruzzo in the leather——have just
invited me to catch their fancy (and illegal)
digs somewhere up in Harlem， when
this cop begins to tell his story：
how he and his partner trailed
this pusher for six weeks before
they trapped him in a burnt-out
tenement somewhere down in SoHo，
one coming at him up the stairwell，
the other up the fire escape
and through a busted window. But by
the time they've grabbed him
he's standing over an open window
and he's clean. The partner races down
into the courtyard and begins going
through the garbage until he finds
what it is he's after： a white bag
hanging from a junk mimosa like
the Christmas gift it is， and which now
he plants back on the suspect.
Cross-examined by a lawyer who does his best
to rattle them， he and his partner
stick by their story， and the charges stick.
Fitzgerald shrugs. Business as usual.
But the cop goes on. Better to let
the guy go free than under oath
to have to lie like that.
And suddenly you can hear the heavy
suck of air before Seluzzi， who
half an hour before was boasting
about being on the take， staggers
to his feet， outraged at what he's heard，
and insists on taking the bastard
downtown so they can book him.
Which naturally brings to an end
the discussion we've been having，
and soon each of us is heading
for an exit， embarrassed by the awkward
light the cop has thrown on things.
Which makes it clearer now to me why
the State would offer someone like Socrates
a shot of hemlock. And even clearer
why Socrates would want to drink it.
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