著名英文诗歌

2021年1月14日发(作者：于道文)
When You Are Old ----Yeats
When you are old and gray and
full of sleep
And nodding by the fire,take
down this book,
And slowly read,and dream of
the soft look
Your eyes had once,and of their
shadows deep;
How many loved your moments
of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love
false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim
soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your
changing face;
And bending down beside the
glowing bars,
Murmur,a little sadly,how love
fled
And paced upon the mountains
overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of
stars.

A Little Boy Lost
Nought loves another as itself
Nor venerates another so.
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:
And Father, how can I love you,
Or any of my brothers more?

I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around
the door.
The Priest sat by and heard the
child.
In trembling zeal he siez'd his
hair:
He led him by his little coat;
And all admir'd the Priestly care.
And standing on the altar high,
Lo what a fiend is here! said he:
One who sets reason up for
judge
Of our most holy Mystery.
The weeping child could not be
heard,
The weeping parents wept in
vain:
They strip'd him to his little shirt.
And bound him in an iron chain.
And burn'd him in a holy place,
Where many had been burn'd
before:
The weeping parents wept in
vain.
Are such things done on Albions
shore.
London
I wander thro' each charter'd
street.
- 1 -
Near where the charter'd
Thames does flow
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of
woe,

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear.
In every voice; in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls.
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro' midnight streets
I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the
Marriage hearse

Preface to Milton
And did those feet in ancient
time,
Walk upon Englands mountains
green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures
seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded
hills?
And was Jerusalem builded
here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning
gold:
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds
unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental
Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my
hand:

Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green and pleasant
Land.
The Chimney Sweeper
When my mother died I was
very young,
And my father sold me while yet
my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep
weep weep.
So your chimneys I sweep and in
soot I sleep.

Theres little Tom Dacre. who
cried when his head,
That curl'd like a lambs back,
was shav'd, so I said,
Hush Tom never mind it, for
when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot
spoil your white hair.

And so he was quiet, and that
very night,
As Tom was a sleeping he had
such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers
Dick, Joe, Ned and Jack
Were all of them lock'd up in
coffins of black,

And by came an Angel who had
a bright key
And he open'd the coffins and
set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping
laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in
the Sun.

Then naked and white, all their
bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport
in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom if he'd
be a good boy.
He'd have God for his father and
never want joy.

And so Tom awoke and we rose
in the dark
- 2 -
And got with our bags and our
brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom
was happy and warm,
So if all do their duty, they need
not fear harm.

The School Boy
I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every
tree;
The distant huntsman winds his
horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.

But to go to school in a summer
morn,
O! it drives all joy away!
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious
hour,
Nor in my book can I take
delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower,
Worn thro' with the dreary
shower.

How can the bird that is born for
joy,

Sit in a cage and sing,
How can a child when fears
annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring.

O! father and mother, if buds
are nip'd,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are
strip'd
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and cares dismay.

How shall the summer arise in
joy.
Or the summer fruits appear.
Or how shall we gather what
griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter
appear.

Ode to a Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy
numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I
had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the
drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards
had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy
happiness,---
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the
trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows
numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated
ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath
been
Cooled a long age in the
deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country
green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and
sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful
Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the
brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the
world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the
forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite
forget
What thou among the leaves hast
never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the
fret
Here, where men sit and hear each
other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last
gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and
spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of
sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her
lustrous eyes,
Or new love pine at them beyond
tomorrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his
pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and
retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
throne,
Clustered around by all her starry
fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the
breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and
winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my
feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon
the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess
each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month
endows
The grass, the thicket, and the
fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral
eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in
leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy
wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on
summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful
Death,
Called him soft names in many a
mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to
die,
To cease upon the midnight with no
pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul
abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have
ears in vain---
To thy high requiem become a sod



- 3 -
Thou wast not born for death,
immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee
down;
The voice I hear this passing night
was heard
In ancient days by emperor and
clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that
found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when,
sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien
corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening
on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands
forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole
self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so
well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem
fades
Past the near meadows, over the
still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried
deep
In the next valley- glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:---do I wake or
sleep?
Childe Harold - Canto the third

I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my
fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house
and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue
eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted,-- not as
now we part,
But with a hope. -
Awaking with a
start,
The waters heave around me;
and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I
depart,
Whither I know not; but the
hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores
could grieve or glad mine eye.

II.
Once more upon the waters! yet
once more!
And the waves bound beneath
me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome
to their roar!
Swift be their guidance,
wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strained mast
should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering
strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a
weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's
foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep,
the tempest's breath prevail.

III.
In my youth's summer I did sing
of One,
The wandering outlaw of his
own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then
but begun,
And bear it with me, as the
rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that
tale I find
The furrows of long thought,
and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile
track behind,
O'er which all heavily the
journeying years
Plod the last sands of life--where
not a flower appears.

IV.
Since my young days of
passion--joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp
have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that
in vain
I would essay as I have sung to
sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to
this I cling,
So that it wean me from the
weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness-- so it
fling
Forgetfulness around me--it
shall seem
To me, though to none else, a
not ungrateful theme.

V.
He who, grown aged in this
world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the
depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him;
nor below
Can love or sorrow, fame,
ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the
keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he
can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in
lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes
which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in
the soul's haunted cell.

VI.
'Tis to create, and in creating
live
A being more intense, that we
endow
With form our fancy, gaining as
we give
The life we image, even as I do
now.
What am I? Nothing: but not so
art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom
I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mixed with thy spirit, blended
with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my
crushed feelings' dearth.

VII.
Yet must I think less wildly: I
HAVE thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain
became,
In its own eddy boiling and
o'erwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and
flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my
heart to tame,
- 4 -
My springs of life were poisoned.
'Tis too late!
Yet am I changed; though still
enough the same
In strength to bear what time
cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without
accusing fate.

Darkness
I had a dream, which was not all
a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished,
and the stars
Did wander darkling in the
eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the
icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in
the moonless air;
Morn came and went- and came,
and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in
the dread
Of this their desolation; and all
hearts
Were chilled into a selfish prayer
for light;
And they did live by
watchfires-and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned
kings-the huts,
The habitations of all things
which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities
were consumed,
And men were gathered round
their blazing homes
To look once more into each
other's face;
Happy were those which dwelt
within the eye
Of the volcanoes, and their
mountain-torch;
A fearful hope was all the world
contained;
Forests were set on fire-but
hour by hour
They fell and faded-and the
crackling trunks
Extinguished with a crash-and all
was black.
The brows of men by the
despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by
fits
The flashes fell upon them:
some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept;
and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched
hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro,
and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and
looked up
With mad disquietude on the
dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and
then again
With curses cast them down
upon the dust,
And gnashed their teeth and
howled; the wild birds shrieked,
And, terrified, did flutter on the
ground,
And flap their useless wings; the
wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and
vipers crawled
And twined themselves among
the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless-they were
slain for food;
And War, which for a moment
was no more,
Did glut himself again;-a meal
was bought
With blood, and each sate
sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no
love was left;
All earth was but one
thought-and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and
the pang
Of famine fed upon all
entrails-men
Died, and their bones were
tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were
devoured,
Even dogs assailed their masters,
all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse,
and kept
The birds and beasts and
famished men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the
drooping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself
sought out no food,
But with a piteous and
perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking
the hand
Which answered not with a
caress-he died.
The crowd was famished by
degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they
met beside
The dying embers of an
altar-place
Where had been heaped a mass
of holy things
For an unholy usage: they raked
up,
And shivering scraped with their
cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their
feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a
flame
Which was a mockery; then they
lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and
beheld
Each other's aspects-saw, and
shrieked, and died-
Even of their mutual
hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon
whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The
world was void,
The populous and the powerful
was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless,
manless, lifeless-
A lump of death-a chaos of hard
clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all
stood still,
And nothing stirred within their
silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on
the sea,
And their masts fell down
piecemeal; as they dropped
They slept on the abyss without
a surge-
The waves were dead; the tides
were in their grave,
The Moon, their mistress, had
expired before;
The winds were withered in the
stagnant air,
And the clouds perished!
- 5 -
Darkness had no need
Of aid from them-She was the
Universe!

She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the
night
Of cloudless climes and
starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and
bright
Meet in her aspect and her
eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender
light
Which heaven to gaudy
day denies.


One shade the more, one ray
the less,
Had half impaired the
nameless grace
Which waves in every raven
tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her
face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet
express
How pure, how dear their
dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that
brow,
So soft, so calm, yet

eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints
that glow,
But tell of days in
goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is
innocent!

To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow
fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the
maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load
and bless
With fruit the vines that round
the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd
cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to
the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump
the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set
budding more,
And still more, later flowers for
the bees,
Until they think warm days will
never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd
their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft
amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks
abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a
granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the
winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow
sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of
poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its
twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner
thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a
brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient
look,
Thou watchest the last oozings
hours by hours.


Where are the songs of Spring?
Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy
music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the
soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains
with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small
gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne
aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives
or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat
from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now
with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a
garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter
in the skies

When I Have Fears the I May
Cease to Be
When I have fears that I may
cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my
teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in
charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the
full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's
starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high
romance,
And feel that I may never live to
trace
Their shadows, with the magic
hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of
an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee
more,
Never have relish in the faery
power
Of unreflecting love;--then on
the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone,
and think,
Till Love and Fame to
nothingness do sink.

The Female Vagrant (extract)
By Derwent's side my Father's
cottage stood,
(The Woman thus her artless
story told)
One field, a flock, and what the
neighboring flood
Supplied, to him were more
than mines of gold.
Light was my sleep; my days in
transport roll'd:
With thoughtless joy I stretch'd
along the shore
My father's nets, or watched,
when from the fold
High o'er the cliffs I led my
fleecy store,
A dizzy depth below! his boat
and twinkling oar.

My father was a good and pious
man,
An honest man, by honest
parents bred,
And I believe that, soon as I
- 6 -
began
To lisp, he made me kneel
beside my bed,
And in his hearing there my
prayers I said:
And afterwards, by my good
father taught,
I read, and loved the books in
which I read;
For books in every neighboring
house I sought,
And nothing to my mind a
sweeter pleasure brought.

Can I forget what charms did
once adorn
My garden, stored with pease,
and mint, and thyme,
And rose and lily for the sabbath
morn?
The sabbath bells, and the
delightful chime;
The gambols and wild freaks at
shearing time;
My hen's rich nest through long
grass scarce espied;
The cowslip-gathering at May's
dewy prime;
The swans, that when I sought
the water-side,
From far to meet me came,
spreading their snowy pride.

The staff I yet remember which

upbore
The bending body of my active
sire;
His seat beneath the honeyed
sycamore
When the bees hummed, and
chair by winter fire;
When market-morning came,
the neat attire
With which, though bent on
haste, myself I deck'd;
My watchful dog, whose starts
of furious ire,
When stranger passed, so often
I have check'd;
The red-breast known for years,
which at my casement peck'd.

The suns of twenty summers
danced along, --
Ah! little marked, how fast they
rolled away:
Then rose a mansion proud our
woods among,
And cottage after cottage
owned its sway,
No joy to see a neighboring
house, or stray
Through pastures not his own,
the master took;
My Father dared his greedy wish
gainsay;
He loved his old hereditary
nook,
And ill could I the thought of
such sad parting brook.

But, when he had refused the
proffered gold,
To cruel injuries he became a
prey,
Sore traversed in whate'er he
bought and sold:
His troubles grew upon him day
by day,
Till all his substance fell into
decay.
His little range of water was
denied;
All but the bed where his old
body lay,
All, all was seized, and weeping,
side by side,
We sought a home where we
uninjured might abide.

Can I forget that miserable hour,
When from the last hill-top, my
sire surveyed,
Peering above the trees, the
steeple tower,
That on his marriage-day sweet
music made?
Till then he hoped his bones
might there be laid,
Close by my mother in their
native bowers:
Bidding me trust in God, he
stood and prayed, -- I could not
pray: -- through tears that fell in
showers,
Glimmer'd our dear-loved home,
alas! no longer ours!

There was a youth whom I had
loved so long,
That when I loved him not I
cannot say.
'Mid the green mountains many
and many a song
We two had sung, like little birds
in May.
When we began to tire of
childish play
We seemed still more and more
to prize each other:
We talked of marriage and our
marriage day;
And I in truth did love him like a
brother,
For never could I hope to meet
with such another.

His father said, that to a distant
town
He must repair, to ply the
artist's trade.
What tears of bitter grief till
then unknown!
What tender vows our last sad
kiss delayed!
To him we turned: -- we had no
other aid.
Like one revived, upon his neck I
wept,
And her whom he had loved in
joy, he said
He well could love in grief: his
faith he kept;
And in a quiet home once more
my father slept.

The Last of the Flock
When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and
thought,
Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I
raised,
As healthy sheep as you might
see,
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I number'd a full score,
And every year encreas'd my
store.

Year after year my stock it grew,
And from this one, this single
ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As sweet a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the mountain they did
feed;
They throve, and we at home
- 7 -
did thrive
-- This lusty lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive:
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.

Ten children, Sir! had I to feed,
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our
grief,
I of the parish ask'd relief.
They said I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the mountain
fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread:

you,
They cried,
due?

I sold a sheep as they had said,
And bought my little children
bread,
And they were healthy with
their food;
For me it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had
reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away!
For me it was a woeful day.


Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its
mother!
It was a vein that never stopp'd,
Like blood-drops from my heart
they dropp'd.
Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one
by one,
And I may say that many a time
I wished they all were gone:
They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day.

To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies cross'd my
mind,
And every man I chanc'd to see,
I thought he knew some ill of
me.
No peace, no comfort could I
find,
No ease, within doors or
without,
And crazily, and wearily,
I went my work about.
Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day.

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and
more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore
distress,
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock, it seemed to melt
away.

They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to
see!
From ten to five, from five to
three,
A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;
And then at last, from three to
two;
And of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one,
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetched it from the
rock;
It is the last of all my flock.