關(guān)于經(jīng)典哲理生活英文詩(shī)
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關(guān)于經(jīng)典哲理生活英文詩(shī)篇1
Star Quilt
by Roberta J. Hill
These are notes to lightning in my bedroom.
A star forged from linen1 thread and patches.
Purple， yellow， red like diamond suckers， children
of the star gleam on sweaty nights. The quilt unfolds
against sheets， moving， warm clouds of Chinook.
It covers my cuts， my red birch clusters under pine.
Under it your mouth begins a legend，
and wide as the plain， I hope Wisconsin marshes
promise your caress. The candle locks
us in forest smells， your cheek tattered
by shadow. Sweetened by wings， my mothlike heart
flies nightly among geraniums.
We know of land that looks lonely，
but isn't， of beef with hides of velveteen，
of sorrow， an eddy in blood.
Star quilt， sewn from dawn light by fingers
of flint， take away those touches
meant for noisier skins，
annoint us with grass and twilight air，
so we may embrace， two bitter roots
pushing back into the dust.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典哲理生活英文詩(shī)篇2
Stars Wheel in Purple
by H. D.
Stars wheel in purple， yours is not so rare
as Hesperus， nor yet so great a star
as bright Aldeboran or Sirius，
nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War;
stars turn in purple， glorious to the sight;
yours is not gracious as the Pleiads are
nor as Orion's sapphires， luminous;
yet disenchanted， cold， imperious face，
when all the others blighted， reel and fall，
your star， steel-set， keeps lone and frigid tryst
to freighted ships， baffled in wind and blast.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典哲理生活英文詩(shī)篇3
Rent
by Jane Cooper
If you want my apartment， sleep in it
but let's have a clear understanding：
the books are still free agents.
If the rocking chair's arms surround you
they can also let you go，
they can shape the air like a body.
I don't want your rent， I want
a radiance of attention
like the candle's flame when we eat，
I mean a kind of awe
attending the spaces between us——
Not a roof but a field of stars.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典哲理生活英文詩(shī)篇4
Steps
by Grace Schulman
"And down and down and down，"
the toddler's mother sings
as he clears every ledge.
Midway we cross their path.
In rain， the museum's steps
loom like the Giant's Stairway
to Guardi's Ducal Palace.
"And up and up and up"
is what I do not say
as you stagger for balance.
Once I'd scaled that summit，
hunted over the crowd，
and saw you below， holding
two hot dogs and white roses;
you vaulted， took the steps
two at a time， then three，
and leaped to where we met.
Your smile is broader now.
You see more. On this day
of wavering， we hear
a Triton blow the horn
where Giotto's Magi open
hands that rise in air：
up， and up， and up.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典哲理生活英文詩(shī)篇5
Streets
by Naomi Shihab Nye
A man leaves the world
and the streets he lived on
grow a little shorter.
One more window dark
in this city， the figs on his branches
will soften for birds.
If we stand quietly enough evenings
there grows a whole company of us
standing quietly together.
overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees
and the sky which sews and sews， tirelessly sewing，
drops her purple hem.
Each thing in its time， in its place，
it would be nice to think the same about people.
Some people do. They sleep completely，
waking refreshed. Others live in two worlds，
the lost and remembered.
They sleep twice， once for the one who is gone，
once for themselves. They dream thickly，
dream double， they wake from a dream
into another one， they walk the short streets
calling out names， and then they answer.
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