شعر إنجليزي

But, when time pulls lives apart Hold your own When everything is fluid, nothing can be known with any certainty Hold your own

I scarce believe my love to be so pure ,As I had thought it was Because it doth endure ;Vicissitude, and season, as the grass

,Twice or thrice had I loved thee ;Before I knew thy face or name ,So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame ;Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be

,As I went down to Dymchurch Wall I heard the South sing o’er the land I saw the yellow sunlight fall .On knolls where Norman churches stand

,There was such speed in her little body ,And such lightness in her footfall It is no wonder her brown study .Astonishes us all

:A thing of beauty is a joy for ever Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth ;And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things

,Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up Frit by the cowboy as he scrambled down To reach the misty dewberry—let us stoop ,And seek its nest—the brook we need not dread

,Some that have deeper digg’d love’s mine than I ;Say, where his centric happiness doth lie ,I have lov’d, and got, and told ,But should I love, get, tell, till I were old

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy ,To those who woo her with too slavish knees ,But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy ;And dotes the more upon a heart at ease

I read of a man who stood to speak At the funeral of a friend He referred to the dates on the tombstone From the beginning...to the end

Little maidens, when you look ,On this little story-book Reading with attentive eye ,Its enticing history

Life has dark secrets; and the hearts are few –That treasure not some sorrow from the world ,A sorrow silent, gloomy, and unknown .Yet colouring the future from the past

I do not know if the world has lied I have lied I do not know if the world has conspired against love I have conspired against love

تُعتبر هذه الرواية من الأعمال الأدبية الصادرة عن الكاتبة إديث وارتون، وتم العمل على نشرها عام 1924م، وتناولت في مضمونها الحديث حول مجتمعات الطبقة العليا في ثلاثة مراحل زمنية متتالية.

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference

,People have been trying to kill me since I was born a man tells his son, trying to explain .the wisdom of learning a second tongue It’s an old story from the previous century

The dog trots freely in the street and sees reality and the things he sees are bigger than himself

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جيمس شويلر مكتوبة عن جمال العالم الطبيعي، مع التركيز على كيف أنها عابرة دائمًا، دائمًا ما تبدو رؤية الصور الجميلة مؤقتة للشاعر، مثل تلاشي النهار والليل دائمًا في بعضهما البعض

,They weren’t red nor was I angry but with something five shades lighter .than passion, I plucked the roses bald

High on a bright and sunny bed A scarlet poppy grew ,And up it held its staring head .And thrust it full in view

,There's just no accounting for happiness or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet .having squandered a fortune far away

Still, I keep myself, I take to bed. One lung is red. Cut red .flowers hung in pink water

,When it was bitter in New York City I would go out with my mother ,past the icy buildings stay against her, just behind her

,In the Shreve High football stadium ,I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville ,And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood ,And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel

Once I lived the life of a millionaire Spending my money and I didn’t care Taking my friends out for a mighty fine time Drinking high priced liquor, champagne and wine

/spring came the same way winter left summer will come& summer will leave; slowly& when no one's expecting it/

,I only have a moment so let me tell you the shortest story ,about arriving at a long loved place, the house of friends in Maine their lawn of wildflowers, their grandfather clock and candid

.A poem is a gesture toward home .It makes dark demands I call my own :Memory makes demands darker than my own .My last love drove a burgundy car

Aster. Nasturtium. Delphinium. We thought Fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt, learning Names in heat, in elements classical .Philosophers said could change us. Star Gazer