詩歌是一種運(yùn)用高度精練、有韻律且富有意象化的語言抒發(fā)情感的文學(xué)樣式,是具有一定外在形式的語言藝術(shù)。下面是由帶來的優(yōu)美的簡(jiǎn)單英語詩歌，歡迎閱讀!
【篇一】?jī)?yōu)美的簡(jiǎn)單英語詩歌閱讀
Convergence of the Twain (Lines on the loss of the Titanic)
Thomas Hardy
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity，
And the Pride of Life that planned her， stilly couches she.
II
Steel chambers， late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires，
Cold currents thrid， and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls——grotesque， slimed， dumb， indifferent.
IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless， all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query： "What does this vaingloriousness down here?". . .
VI
Well： while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing，
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her——so gaily great——
A Shape of Ice， for the time fat and dissociate
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature， grace， and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
IX
Alien they seemed to be：
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history.
X
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one August event，
XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears，
And consummation comes， and jars two hemispheres.
【篇二】?jī)?yōu)美的簡(jiǎn)單英語詩歌閱讀
I Love This Land
If I were a bird,
I would sing with my hoarse voice
Of this land buffeted by storms,
Of this river turbulent with our grief,
Of these angry winds ceaselessly blowing,
And of the dawn, infinitely gentle over the woods…
——Then I would die
And even my feathers would rot in the soil.
Why are my eyes always brimming with tears?
Because I love this land so deeply…
【篇三】?jī)?yōu)美的簡(jiǎn)單英語詩歌閱讀
Yet Do I Marvel
Countée Cullen
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is bailed by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
【篇一】?jī)?yōu)美的簡(jiǎn)單英語詩歌閱讀
Convergence of the Twain (Lines on the loss of the Titanic)
Thomas Hardy
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity，
And the Pride of Life that planned her， stilly couches she.
II
Steel chambers， late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires，
Cold currents thrid， and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls——grotesque， slimed， dumb， indifferent.
IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless， all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query： "What does this vaingloriousness down here?". . .
VI
Well： while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing，
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her——so gaily great——
A Shape of Ice， for the time fat and dissociate
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature， grace， and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
IX
Alien they seemed to be：
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history.
X
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one August event，
XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears，
And consummation comes， and jars two hemispheres.
【篇二】?jī)?yōu)美的簡(jiǎn)單英語詩歌閱讀
I Love This Land
If I were a bird,
I would sing with my hoarse voice
Of this land buffeted by storms,
Of this river turbulent with our grief,
Of these angry winds ceaselessly blowing,
And of the dawn, infinitely gentle over the woods…
——Then I would die
And even my feathers would rot in the soil.
Why are my eyes always brimming with tears?
Because I love this land so deeply…
【篇三】?jī)?yōu)美的簡(jiǎn)單英語詩歌閱讀
Yet Do I Marvel
Countée Cullen
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is bailed by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!