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300 Classic poems:经典诗歌300首(英文原版)pdf/doc/txt格式电子书下载




300 Classic poems:经典诗歌300首(英文原版)pdf/doc/txt格式电子书下载

书名:300 Classic poems:经典诗歌300首(英文原版)pdf/doc/txt格式电子书下载












300 Classic poems


(美)H·W·朗费罗(H.W.Longfellow) 沃尔特·惠特曼(Walt Whitman) 等 著



By Siegfried Sassoon

THE anguish of the earth absolves our eyes

Till beauty shines in all that we can see.

War is our scourge;yet war has made us wise,

And,fighting for our freedom,we are free.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,

And loss of things desired;all these must pass.

We are the happy legion,for we know

Time\'s but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

There was an hour when we were loth to part

From life we longed to share no less than others.

Now,having claimed this heritage of heart,

What need we more,my comrades and my brothers?

When you come back we may sit by five hollyhocks.

We might listen to boys fighting for marbles.

The grasshopper will look good to us.

So it goes….


By Carl Sandburg

EVERY year Emily Dickinson sent one friend

the first arbutus bud in her garden.

In a last will and testament Andrew Jackson

remembered a friend with the gift of George

Washington\'s pocket spy-glass.

Napoleon too,in a last testament,mentioned a silver

watch taken from the bedroom of Frederick the Great,

and passed along this trophy to a particular friend.

O.Henry took a blood carnation from his coat lapel

and handed it to a country girl starting work in a

bean bazaar,and scribbled:“Peach blossoms may or

may not stay pink in city dust.”

So it goes.Some things we buy,some not.

Tom Jefferson was proud of his radishes,and Abe

Lincoln blacked his own boots,and Bismarck called

Berlin a wilderness of brick and newspapers.

So it goes.There are accomplished facts.

Ride,ride,ride on in the great new blimps—

Cross unheard-of oceans,circle the planet.


By Robert Burns

FAIR fa\' your honest,sonsie face,

Great chieftain o\' the pudding-race!

Aboon them a\' ye tak your place,

Painch,tripe,or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o\'a grace

As lang\'s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin was help to mend a mill

In time o\'need,

While thro\' your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,

An‘cut you up wi’ ready sleight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like ony ditch;

And then,O what a glorious sight,


Then,horn for horn,they stretch an\' strive:

Deil tak the hindmost!on they drive,

Till a\' their weel-swall\'d kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman,maist like to rive,


Is there that owre his French ragout

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad make her spew

Wi\' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi\' sneering,scornfu\' view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil!see him owre his trash,

As feckles as wither\'d rash,

His spindle shank,a guid whip-lash;

His nieve a nit;

Thro\' blody flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic,haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread.

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He\'ll mak it whissle;

An’ legs an’ arms,an’ hands will sned,

Like taps o\' trissle.

Ye Pow’rs,wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o\' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But,if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer

Gie her a haggis!


By Robert Frost

MY long two-pointed ladder\'s sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there\'s a barrel that I didn\'t fill

Beside it,and there may be two or three

Apples I didn\'t pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples:I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted,and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin

The rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking:I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand,lift down,and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine,whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it\'s like his

Long sleep,as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.


By Thomas Hardy

“AH,are you digging on my grave,

My loved one?—planting rue?”

—“No:yesterday he went to wed

One of the brightest wealth has bred.

‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,

‘That I should not be true.’”

“Then who is digging on my grave,

My nearest dearest kin?”

—“Ah,no:they sit and think,‘What use!

What good will planting flowers produce?

No tendance of her mound can loose

Her spirit from Death\'s gin.’”

“But som