英语诗歌是一个包含丰富社会生活内容、语言艺术和文化内涵的世界,是基础英语教学的一块很有潜力的教学资源。本站小编整理了关于优美的英文诗句，欢迎阅读!
by Judith Viorst
Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they smell，
And never sit when you say sit，
Or even when you yell.
And when you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow，
You have to go back out because
The dumb dog has to go.
Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they shed，
And always let the strangers in
And bark at friends instead，
And do disgraceful things on rugs，
And track mud on the floor，
And flop upon your bed at night
And snore their doggy snore.
Mother doesn't want a dog.
She's making a mistake.
Because， more than a dog， I think
She will not want this snake
关于优美的英文诗句篇二Mr. Grumpledump's Song
by Shel Silverstein
Everything's wrong，
Days are too long，
Sunshine's too hot，
Wind is too strong.
Clouds are too fluffy，
Grass is too green，
Ground is too dusty，
Sheets are too clean.
Stars are too twinkly，
Moon is too high，
Water's too drippy，
Sand is too dry.
Rocks are too heavy，
Feathers too light，
Kids are too noisy，
Shoes are too tight.
Folks are too happy，
Singin' their songs.
Why can't they see it?
Everything's wrong!
关于优美的英文诗句篇三Mound Digger
by Sarah Lindsay
This mound of dirt and the summer are heirs to transfer
from what lies before and what lies behind，
pinch by pinch. Of the mound， she keeps a record.
The point， the students have been assured，
is not to find objects. Their object is
to understand the ground.
What water did with it， when.
how often earthworms combed and cast it.
Whether it was tilled or thrust aside，
which seeds lay in it， which pollens settled.
When it's too dark to dig， she makes a tent
of reading assignments. A chapter on similarities
between spear points unearthed in Virginia
and Soultrean points in Spain，
both kinds wrought as though for beauty
and cached in heaps of red ocher. Another book
invites her to peer at the keyhole shape of a bone
the size of her index finger， engraved
these ten thousand years with forty strokes——
fourteen， eight， eleven， then seven——and polished.
A tally， a game， the score?
We'll never know. And here's a review
of arguments about a broken rock
that might have been bashed into useful shape
deliberately， with another rock，
by some original axe-making biped，
or might be a geofact， a tease，
a found axe——or no tool at all.
She douses the light
and all the words disappear.
Morning， back to the mound. It's two mounds now;
she knows it halfway through， its wayward layers，
silky and barren or matted with nutrients，
heavy clay， a thousand shades of brown.
She sees it with her eyes shut， with her palms，
sometimes tastes it. Leaves the flints and bones
to thrill-seekers and visionaries.
Dirt answers her questions. She has dug past
any props or plots or characters
to the stuff all stories walk on
关于优美的英文诗句篇四Muse
by Meena Alexander
I was young when you came to me.
Each thing rings its turn，
you sang in my ear， a slip of a thing
dressed like a convent girl
white socks， shoes，
dark blue pinafore， white blouse.
A pencil box in hand： girl， book， tree
those were the words you gave me.
Girl was penne， hair drawn back，
gleaming on the scalp，
the self in a mirror in a rosewood room
the sky at monsoon time， pearl slits
In cloud cover， a jagged music pours：
gash of sense， raw covenant
clasped still in a gold bound book，
pusthakam pages parted，
ink rubbed with mist，
a bird might have dreamt its shadow there
spreading fire in a tree maram.
You murmured the word， sliding it on your tongue，
trying to get how a girl could turn
into a molten thing and not burn.
Centuries later worn out from travel
I rest under a tree.
You come to me
a bird shedding gold feathers，
each one a quill scraping my tympanum.
You set a book to my ribs.
Night after night I unclasp it
at the mirror's edge
alphabets flicker and soar.
Write in the light
of all the languages
you know the earth contains，
you murmur in my ear.
This is pure transport
关于优美的英文诗句篇五Muse, a Lady Cautioning
by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
There's fairness in changing blood for septet's
guardian rhythm， the horn blossoming
into cadenza. No good pimp's scowl， his
baby's voice ruined sweet for the duration.
Yes， these predictable fifths. O， the blues
is all about slinging those low tales out
the back door (sing： child pried open on that
stained floor)。 O， Billie hollers way down dirt
roads (sing： woman on the verge of needled
logic)。 She's aware——yeah， I'm going to
kiss some man's sugared fist tonight. O， this
tableau's muse， a Lady cautioning me：
Just tough this thing out， girl. Sweat through the jones.
Don't ask for nothing. Spit your last damned note
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