优美的简单英语诗歌阅读

优美的简单英语诗歌阅读【篇一】优美的简单英语诗歌阅读 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】优美的简单英语诗歌阅读 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】优美的简单英语诗歌阅读 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!