隐形冠军
the soul john 灵魂 约翰·格斯瓦斯 my soul's the sky——my flying soul! the lightnight flare,the thunder roll, the sun and moon and stars go by, and great winds sweep my soul,the sky! my brooding soul——my soul's the sea! the snaky weed,and whishing scree, the white wave's surge from pole to pole, and still green depth——the sea's my soul! my soul's the spring——my loveing soul! will dance,and leap,and drain the bowl of love;and longing,twine and cling to all the world——my soul's the spring! my fevered soul!my soul's the town! thro'flaring street goes up and down; the bells of feast and traffic toll and maze their music in my soul. my tranquil soul!my soul too wide for sky,or spring,town,or tide! thou traveller to outer strand of home serene——my soul so grand! 我的灵魂是太空！ 电在闪呵雷在轰， 日月群星在运动， 时而卷起大台风！ 我的灵魂是大海！ 蛇样的藻响石崖， 百浪涛天天接地， 琉璃万顷身无界！ 我的灵魂是阳春， 踊跃狂饮爱之淳， 万事万物皆有情， 渴望，缠绵理不清。 我的灵魂是市镇！ 陆离街道莽纵横； 祭日之中驿站铃， 结成交响之乐音。 我的灵魂太沉静， 天，春，镇，海比不赢！ 远游彼岸之太清—— 我的灵魂真雄浑！ a london thoroughfare(2 a.m.) amy lowell 一条伦敦大马路（午夜二时） 阿米·罗维尔 they have watered the street, it shines in the glare of lamps, cold,white lamps, and lies like a slow-moving river, barred with silver and black. cabs go down it, one, and then another. between then i hear the shuffling of feet. tramps doze on the window-ledges, night-walkers pass along the side-walks. the city is squalid and sinister, with the silver-barred street in the midst, slow-moving, a river leading nowhere. opposite my window, the moon cuts, clear and round, throu ugh the plum-colored night. she cannot light the city; it is too bright. it was white lamps, and glitters coldly. i stand in the window and watch the moon. she is thin and lustreless, but i love her. i know the moon, and this is an alien city. 人们在街上洒了水， 街道在灯光中扬辉， 冷，白色的灯， 躺着 像一条河慢慢流进， 有银色、黑色的条纹， 马车走过来， 一台， 又是一台。 在它们之间夹着脚音。 脚音在窗台上打盹， 人行道上过着夜行的人。 这城市阴晦而苦闷， 有银线条的街在它中心， 慢慢的流着 一条没有出口的河。 正对着我的窗 有澄净的，圆圆的 月亮， 穿过杏色的穹苍， 她不会照耀城市； 由于城市太亮。 城市有白色的灯 放射着冷光。 我站在窗边望着月亮， 她太冷淡而不辉煌， 但我爱她， 月亮是我的故人， 城市在异乡。 These Things Shall Never Die 这些美好不会消逝 By --Charles Dickens/查尔斯.狄更斯 The pure.the bright,the beautiful, 一切纯洁的,辉煌的,美丽的, That stirred our hearts in youth, 强烈地震撼着我们年轻的心灵的, The impulses to wordless prayer, 推动着我们做无言的祷告的, The dreams of love and truth; 让我们梦想着爱与真理的; The longing after something's lost, 在失去后为之感到珍惜的, The spirit's yearning cry, 使灵魂深切地呼喊着的, The striving after better hopes- 为了更美好的梦想而奋斗着的- These things can never die. 这些美好不会消逝。 The timid hand stretched forth to aid 羞怯地伸出援助的手， A brother in his need, 在你的弟兄需要的时候， A kindly word in grief's dark hour 伤恸、困难的时候，一句亲切的话 That proves a friend indeed ; 就足以证明朋友的真心； The plea for mercy softly breathed, 轻声地乞求怜悯， When justice threatens nigh, 在审判临近的时候， The sorrow of a contrite heart- 懊悔的心有一种伤感-- These things shall never die. 这些美好不会消逝。 Let nothing pass for every hand 在人间传递温情 Must find some work to do ; 尽你所能地去做； Lose not a chance to waken love- 别错失去了唤醒爱的良机----- Be firm,and just ,and true; 为人要坚定，正直，忠诚； So shall a light that cannot fade 因此上方照耀着你的那道光芒 Beam on thee from on high. 就不会消失。 And angel voices say to thee---你将听到天使的声音在说----- These things shall never die. 这些美好不会消逝。
海上花的故事
学习英语贵在坚持，找到适合自己的方法，多运用多温故。我在此献上优秀的英语诗歌，希望对大家有所帮助。
优秀的英文诗歌：生如夏花
Life, thin and light-off time and time again
生命，一次又一次轻薄过
Frivolous tireless
轻狂不知疲倦
I heard the echo, from the valleys and the heart 我听见回声，来自山谷和心间
Open to the lonely soul of sickle harvesting
以寂寞的镰刀收割空旷的灵魂
Repeat outrightly, but also repeat the well-being of eventually swaying in the desert oasis
不断地重复决绝，又重复幸福,终有绿洲摇曳在沙漠
I believe I am
我相信自己
Born as the bright summer flowers
生来如同璀璨的夏日之花
Do not withered undefeated fiery demon rule
不凋不败，妖冶如火
Heart rate and breathing to bear the load of the cumbersome Bored
承受心跳的负荷和呼吸的累赘 乐此不疲
I heard the music, from the moon and carcass
我听见音乐，来自月光和胴体
Auxiliary extreme aestheticism bait to capture misty
辅极端的诱饵捕获飘渺的唯美
Filling the intense life, but also filling the pure
一生充盈着激烈，又充盈着纯然
There are always memories throughout the earth
总有回忆贯穿于世间
I believe I am
我相信自己
Died as the quiet beauty of autumn leaves
死时如同静美的秋日落叶
Sheng is not chaos, smoke gesture
不盛不乱，姿态如烟
Even wilt also retained bone proudly Qing Feng muscle Occult
即便枯萎也保留丰肌清骨的傲然 玄之又玄
I hear love, I believe in love
我听见爱情，我相信爱情
Love is a pool of struggling blue-green algae
爱情是一潭挣扎的蓝藻
As desolate micro-burst of wind
如同一阵凄微的风
Bleeding through my veins
穿过我失血的静脉
Years stationed in the belief
驻守岁月的信念
I believe that all can hear
我相信一切能够听见
Even anticipate discrete, I met the other their own
甚至预见离散，遇见另一个自己
Some can not grasp the moment
而有些瞬间无法把握 Left to the East to go West, the dead must not return to nowhere
任凭东走西顾，逝去的必然不返
See, I wear Zan Flowers on my head, in full bloom along the way all the way
请看我头置簪花，一路走来一路盛开
Frequently missed some, but also deeply moved by wind, frost, snow or rain
频频遗漏一些，又深陷风霜雨雪的感动
Prajna Paramita, soon as soon as life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves
般若波罗蜜，一声一声,生如夏花，死如秋叶
Also care about what has
还在乎拥有什么
优秀的英文诗歌：深夜里听到乐声
I Heard Music At Midnight
深夜里听到乐声
By Lin Huiyin
诗/林徽因
这一定又是你的手指，
轻弹着，
在这深夜，稠密的悲思;
It must be your fingers again,
plucking slightly such a deep sorrow,
at such a deep night;
我不禁颊边泛上了红，
静听着，
这深夜里弦子的生动。
I can't help flushing on my cheeks,
and listening silently,
to the passion of your harp at night.
一声听从我心底穿过，
忒凄凉
我懂得，但我怎能应和?
A tune is passing through my heart,
so lonely
I can understand, but how can I deal?
生命早描定她的式样，
太薄弱
是人们的美丽的想象。
Life has depicted her life style for long,
too vulnerable
just a beautiful illusion of people.
除非在梦里有这么一天，
你和我
同来攀动那根希望的弦。
选自《新月诗选》(1931年9月)
Unless one day in a dream,
You and I
come together to pluck the chord of hope.
From 'Selection of New Moon Poems' (September 1931)
优秀的英语诗歌：如果
By Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
如果周围的人失去理智，纷纷责难于你 而你能淡定处之 如果他们对你心存猜忌 你却能自信不改，并原谅他们的猜忌 如果你肯等待时机，不急不躁 或遭人诽谤，却不以牙还牙 或遭人憎恨，却不以怨抱怨 既不装腔作势，亦不花言巧语
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
如果你坚持梦想，又不被梦想左右心智 如果你审慎思考，又不会因此走火入魔 如果你能坦然面对胜利和惨败 对胜负荣辱的虚无缥缈了然于胸 如果你能忍受无赖们曲解你的真心之言 拿去误导愚昧的人们 或者能眼睁睁看着你用心血浇灌的所有一朝被毁 却能俯身收拾瓦砾，用老旧的工具修补残局 If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
如果你敢压上毕生赢取的所有筹码 在一个赌局上孤注一掷 却一把输光，能又再从零开始 而从此只字不提滑铁卢的惨败 如果，你能让疲惫不已的精气和肌体 依然听从于你的指挥 还能坚持，坚持到你身体内所有气力损耗殆尽 只剩下意志在喊：“坚持!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
如果你能与平庸之辈为伍，却不随波逐流 或出将入相，而面无谄媚之色 如果致命死敌或至亲之人都无法伤害于你 如果众人都对你信赖有加，又不寄生于你 如果你能珍惜每寸逝去不再回的光阴 把每分每秒用到极致 那么，你的成就会如天地一样博大 更重要的是，我的孩子，你就是一个顶天立地的人了!
往昔岁月
文学是一种语言艺术,诗歌又历来被视作文学的最高形式。学习英语诗歌不但有助于开阔视野,陶冶性情,而且对于英语学习有很大帮助。我整理了长篇经典英文诗歌，欢迎阅读!
Charlotte Brontë in Leeds Point
by Stephen Dunn
From her window marshland stretched for miles.
If not for egrets and gulls， it reminded her of the moors
behind the parsonage， how the fog often hovered
and descended as if sheltering some sweet compulsion
the age was not ready to see. On clear days the jagged
skyline of Atlantic City was visible——Atlantic City，
where all compulsions had a home.
"Everything's too easy now，" she said to her neighbor，
"nothing resisted， nothing gained." Once， at eighteen，
she dreamed of London's proud salons glowing
with brilliant fires and dazzling chandeliers.
Already her own person——passionate， assertive——
soon she'd create a governess insistent on rights equal
to those above her rank. "The dangerous picture
of a natural heart，" one offended critic carped.
She'd failed， he said， to let religion reign
over the passions and， worse， she was a woman.
Now she was amazed at what women had，
doubly amazed at what they didn't.
But she hadn't come back to complain or haunt.
Her house on the bay was modest， adequate.
The Present Writer
by Coner O'Callaghan
answers questions vaguely， as if from distance，
cares less for the dribs and drabs of his libido;
gets more droll， lachrymose， implicit with age;
has backed from the room， the turntable moving
and a refill pad lying open at the page
with 'swansong' and 'glockenspiel' written on it;
makes collect calls from payphones， lost for words;
has been known to sleep in the rear seat
on the hard shoulder， the hazards ticking;
is given to sudden floods of hope; still dreams
of swimming pools， in sepia; can take or leave
a life in shadow; will whoop out of the blue
and surface on the landing， fork and spoon in hand，
adrift of what the done thing was; doodles butterflies
on the envelopes of unread letters; travels happiest
towards daylight and fancies pigeons; gets a kick
inhabiting the third person， as if talking across himself
or forever clapping his own exits from the wings.
The Potato
by Joseph Stroud
Three days into the journey
I lost the Inca Trail
and scrambled around the Andes
in a growing panic
when on a hillside below snowline
I met a farmer who pointed the way——
Machu Picchu allá， he said.
He knew where I wanted to go.
From my pack I pulled out an orange.
It seemed to catch fire
in that high blue Andean sky.
I gave it to him.
He had been digging in a garden，
turning up clumps of earth，
some odd， misshapen nuggets，
some potatoes.
He handed me one，
a potato the size of the orange
looking as if it had been in the ground
a hundred years，
a potato I carried with me
until at last I stood gazing down
on the Urubamba valley，
peaks rising out of the jungle into clouds，
and there among the mists
was the Temple of the Sun
and the Lost City of the Incas.
Looking back now， all these years later，
what I remember most，
what matters to me most，
was that farmer， alone on his hillside，
who gave me a potato，
a potato with its peasant face，
its lumps and lunar craters，
a potato that fit perfectly in my hand，
a potato that consoled me as I walked，
told me not to fear，
held me close to the earth，
the potato I put in a pot that night，
the potato I boiled above Machu Picchu，
the patient， gnarled potato
I ate.
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