شعر إنجليزي

,This darksome burn, horseback brown ,His rollrock highroad roaring down In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam .Flutes and low to the lake falls home

,It was not Death, for I stood up –And all the Dead, lie down  It was not Night, for all the Bells .Put out their Tongues, for Noon

,Said the Table to the Chair ,You can hardly be aware‘ ,How I suffer from the heat‘ !And from chilblains on my feet

I am so small walking on the beach .at night under the widening sky The wet sand quickens beneath my feet .and the waves thunder against the shore

,When foxes eat the last gold grape ,And the last white antelope is killed I shall stop fighting and escape .Into a little house I’ll build

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal ,There where the vines cling crimson on the wall .And in the twilight wait for what will come

Dark is the forest and deep, and overhead Hang stars like seeds of light In vain, though not since they were sown was bred

Is this the road that climbs above and bends ‎‏Round what was once a chalk-pit: now it is ‎‏.By accident an amphitheatre

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough :Long worn out, and the roller made of stone

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die

I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook .fast in a corner of his mouth

.September rain falls on the house In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child ,beside the Little Marvel Stove

I am in need of music that would flow ,Over my fretful, feeling fingertips ,Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips .With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow

,I MIND me in the days departed How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run .To a garden long deserted

,Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east .And one of them shot in the west by the sea Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast

;I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless  ,That only men incredulous of despair  Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air 

.The evening passes fast away“ ;Tis almost time to rest’ ,What thoughts has left the vanished day ?What feelings in thy breast

—We were very tired, we were very merry .We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry —It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable ,But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired ,Of passing pleasant places! All my life

Right now two black people sit in a jury room in Southern California trying to persuade nine white people that what they saw when four white

,Avoid the reeking herd  ,Shun the polluted flock  ,Live like that stoic bird  .The eagle of the rock

He knew in the hour he died That his heart had never spoken .In eighty years of days O for the tall tower broken

Goldbrown upon the sated flood ;The rockvine clusters lift and sway Vast wings above the lambent waters brood .Of sullen day

All day I hear the noise of waters ,Making moan Sad as the sea-bird is when, going ,Forth alone

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful .And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two .I'm one of your talking wounded .I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded

,At last I'm taking off this coat this black coat of a country ,that I swore for years was mine that I wore more out of habit

Theseus, if he did destroy the Minotaur ,(It's hard to say, that may have been a myth) .Was careful not to close the labyrinth

After so long an absence  :At last we meet again  ,Does the meeting give us pleasure  –?Or does it give us pain 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp ;The hunted Negro lay ,He saw the fire of the midnight camp And heard at times a horse’s tramp

,As the birds come in the Spring ;We know not from where As the stars come at evening ;From depths of the air