Next Door-英文诗词
“瓦坎达的小羊”通过精心收集，向本站投稿了9篇Next Door-英文诗词，以下是小编为大家整理后的Next Door-英文诗词，希望能够帮助到大家。
篇1：英文诗词
英文诗词精选
by Mark Ford
Unwinding in a cavernous bodega he suddenly
Burst out：——Barman， these tumblers empty themselves
And yet I persist； I am wedged in the giant eye
Of an invisible needle. Walking through doors
Or into them， listening to anecdotes or myself spinning
A yarn， I realize my doom is never to forget
My lost bearings. In medias res we begin
And end： I was born， and then my body unfurled
As if to illustrate a few tiny but effective words
But——oh my oh my——avaunt. I peered
Forth， stupefied， from the bushes as the sun set
Behind distant hills. A pair of hungry owls
Saluted the arrival of webby darkness； the dew
Descended upon the creeping ferns. At first
My sticky blood refused to flow， gathering instead
In wax-like drops and pools； mixed with water and a dram
Of colourless alcohol it thinned and reluctantly
Ebbed away. I lay emptied as a fallen
Leaf until startled awake by a blinding flash
Of dry lightning， and the onset of this terrible thirst.
篇2：英文诗词
有关英文诗词
Traveling through the Dark
by William Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon：
that road is narrow； to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap， a doe， a recent killing；
she had stiffened already， almost cold.
I dragged her off； she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason
her side was warm； her fawn lay there waiting，
alive， still， never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights；
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red；
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all——my only swerving，
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
篇3：英文诗词：Then
英文诗词：Then
by Spencer Reece
I was a full-time house sitter. I had no title.
I lived in a farmhouse， on a small hill，
surrounded by 100 acres. All was still.
The fields were in a government program
that paid farmers to abandon them. Perfect.
I overlooked Union Lake， a small lake，
with a small ugly island in the middle
a sort of mistake， a cluster of dead elms
encircled by marsh， resembling a smear
of oil paint left to congeal on a palette.
Pesticides farmers sprayed on their crops
over the years had drained into the lake
and made the water black， the fish shake.
About the family that built the house
I knew nothing. Built in 1865，
perhaps they came after the Civil War？
It was a simple house. Two stories.
Six rooms. Every wall crooked.
Before the house， Indians camped there.
If you listened you could hear them.
On Sunday afternoons in early June，
the sun would burnish the interiors.
Shafts of light fell across the rooms.
An old gray cat sparred his mote-swirls.
Up a tiny staircase， ladder steep，
I was often found， adrift， half asleep.
I forgot words， where I lived， my dreams.
Mirrors around the house， those streams，
ran out of gossip. The walls absorbed me.
There was every indication I was safe there.
Outside， children sang， sweetening the air：
Row， row， row your boat， gently down the stream.
Merrily， merrily， merrily， merrily， life is but a dream . . .
their fingers marrying each other with ease
as the dark built its scaffolding above the trees.
Peonies spoiled， dye ran from their centers.
Often， the lawn was covered by a fine soft rain.
Days disappeared as quickly as they came.
The children receded. The moon rose.
Cows paused on the wild green plain
of all that land still left uncommercialized.
Three years I had there. Alone. At peace.
Often I awoke as the light began to cease.
The house breathed and shook like a lover
as I took for myself time needed to recover.
篇4：英文诗词
英文诗词
The Nightjar
We loved our nightjar， but she would not stay with us.
We had found her lying as dead， but soft and warm，
Under the apple tree beside the old thatched wall.
Two days we kept her in a basket by the fire，
Fed her and thought she well might live ？ till suddenly
I the very moment of most confiding hope
She arised herself all tense， qivered and drooped and died.
Tears sprang into my eyes- why not？ The heart of man
Soon sets itself to love a living companion，
The more so if by chance it asks some care of him.
And this one had the kind of loveliness that goes
Far deeper than the optic nerve- full fathom five
To the soul抯ocean cave， where Wonder and Reason
Tell their alternate dreams of how the world was made.
So wonderful she was-her wings the wings of night
But powdered here and therewith tiny golden clouds
And wave-line markings like sea-ripples on the sand.
O how I wish I might never forget that bird-
Never！
But even now， like all beauty of earth，
She is fading from me into the dusk of Time.
篇5：英文诗词
英文诗词一首
National Poetry Month
by Elaine Equi
When a poem speaks by itself，it has a spark
and can be considered part of a divine conversation.
Sometimes the poem weaves like a basket around two loaves of yellow bread.
“Break off a piece of this April with its raisin nipples，” it says.
“And chew them slowly under your pillow. You belong in bed with me.”
On the other hand，when a poem speaks in the voice of a celebrity
it is called television or a movie. “There is nothing to see，”
say Robert De Niro，though his poem bleeds all along the edges
like a puddle crudely outlined with yellow tape
at the crime scene of spring.
“It is an old poem，” he adds.
“And besides，I was very young when I made it.”
篇6：英文的诗词
关于英文的诗词
Colorful Shades of Gray
By Jennie Gratton from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III
Moths are very ugly creatures. At least that is what I always thought until a reliable source told me otherwise. When I was about five or six years old, my brother Joseph and I stayed overnight at our Aunt Linda’s house, our favorite relative. She spoke to us like adults, and she always had the best stories.
Joseph was only four years old, and still afraid of the dark, so Aunt Linda left the door open and the hall light on when she tucked us in to bed. Joe couldn’t sleep, so he just lay there staring at the ceiling. Just as I dozed off to sleep, he woke me up and asked, “Jennie, what are those ugly things near the light?”(I had always liked that he asked me questions because I was older and supposed to know the answers. I didn’t always know the answers, of course, but I could always pretend I did.) He was pointing to the moths fluttering around the hall light. “They’re just moths, go to sleep,” I told him.
He wasn’t content with that answer, or the moths near his night light, so the next time my Aunt walked by the door he asked her to make the ugly moths go away. When she asked why, he said simply, “Because they’re ugly and scary, and I don’t like them! ”She just laughed, rubbed his head, and said, “Joe just because something is ugly outside doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful inside. Do you know why moths are brown?” Joe just shook his head.
“Moths are the most beautiful animals in the animal kingdom. At one time they were more colorful than the butterflies. They have always been helpful, kind, and generous creatures. One day the angels up in heaven were crying. They were sad because it was cloudy and they couldn’t look down upon the people on earth. Their tears fell down to the earth as rain. The sweet little moths hated to see everyone so sad. They decided to make a rainbow. The moths figured that if they asked their cousins, the butterflies, to help, they could all give up just a little bit of their colors and they could make a beautiful rainbow.
One of the littlest moths flew to ask the queen of the butterflies for help. The butterflies were too vain and selfish to give up any of their colors for neither the people nor the angels. So, the moths decided to try to make the rainbow themselves. They beat their wings very hard and the powder on them formed little clouds that the winds smoothed over like glass. Unfortunately, the rainbow wasn’t big enough so the moths kept giving a little more and a little more until the rainbow stretched all the way across the sky. They had given away all their color except brown, which didn’t fit into their beautiful rainbow.
Now the once colorful moths were plain and brown. The angels up in heaven saw the rainbow, and became joyous. They smiled and the warmth of their smiles shown down on the earth as sunshine. The warm sunshine made the people on earth happy and they smiled, too. Now every time it rains the baby moths, who still have their colors, spread them across the sky to make more rainbows.”
My brother sank off to sleep with that story and hasn’t feared moths since. The story my aunt told us had been gathering dust in the back corners of my brain for years, but recently came back to me.
I have a friend named Abigail who always wears gray clothes. She is also one of the most kind and generous people I’ve ever met. When people ask her why she doesn’t wear more colors she just smiles, that smile, and says, “Gray is my color.” She knows herself and she doesn’t compromise that to appease other people. Some may see her as plain like a moth, but I know that underneath the gray, Abigail is every color of the rainbow.
篇7：英文诗词及翻译
英文诗词及翻译
The Music Within
Life...What is it?
See it in the colors of autumn,
A gentle snowfall in winter,
A sudden shower in spring,
The radiance of a summer day.
Behold it in the laughter
Of the young and the old.
Know of it in a surge of hope,
The blessings that are bountiful.
What is life?
It is joy, awareness,
And the music within.
心灵深处的音乐
生命是什么？
它浸染在五彩缤纷的'秋色里，
飘融在轻柔无语的冬雪中，
在阵阵春雨里，
在绚丽夏日中。
它包含在老人爽朗的笑声里，
也隐匿在孩子们天真的嬉戏中。
它汹涌在人们的希望里，
它荡漾在美好的中。
生命是什么？
是欢乐，是领悟，
是心灵深处的音乐。
篇8：Snow-Flakes英文诗词
Snow-Flakes英文诗词
Snow-Flakes
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the bosom of the Air，
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken，
Over the woodlands brown and bare，
Over the harvest-fields forsaken，
Silent， and soft， and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression，
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession，
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air，
Slowly in silent syllables recorded；
This is the secret of despair，
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded，
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
篇9：ATurningPoint英文诗词
Seventy years ago I was quite a small little girl, the baby of the family, with an older brother and sister.My father was very ill at the time, and my mother took in sewing of any kind so we could live.She would sew far into the night with nothing but dim gas mantles and an old treadle sewing machine.She never complained even when the fire would be low and the food very scarce.She would sew until the early hours of morning.
Things were very bad that particular winter.Then a letter came from where her sewing machine was purchased, stating that they would have to pick up her machine the next day unless payments were brought up to date.I remember when she read the letter I became frightened; I could picture us starving to death and all sorts of things that could come to a child‘s mind.My mother did not appear to be worried, however, and seemed to be quite calm about the matter.I, on the other hand, cried myself to sleep, wondering what would become of our family.Mother said God would not fail her, that he never had.I couldn‘t see how God was going to help us keep this old sewing machine.
The day the men were to come for our only means of support, there was a knock at the kitchen door.I was frightened as a child would be, for I was sure it was those dreaded men.Instead, a nicely dressed man stood at our door with a darling baby in his arms.
He asked my mother if she was Mrs. Hill.When she said she was, he said, “I‘m in trouble this morning and you have been recommended by the druggist and grocer down the street as an honest and wonderful woman.My wife was rushed to the hospital this morning, and since we have no relatives here, and I must open my dentist office, I have nowhere to leave my baby.Could you possibly take care of her for a few days?”He continued, “I will pay you in advance.”With this he took out ten dollars and gave it to my mother.
Mother said, “Yes, yes, I will be glad to do so,” and took the baby from his arms.When the man left, Mother turned to me with tears streaming down a face that looked as though a light was shining on it.She said, “I knew God would never let them take away my machine.”
Reprinted by permission of Adeline Perkins (c) 1998 from A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen.In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.All rights reserved.
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