شعر إنجليزي

—There is a pain—so utter —It swallows substance up —Then covers the Abyss with Trance

—The Trees like Tassels — hit — and swung  There seemed to rise a Tune From Miniature Creatures —Accompanying the Sun 

–The Soul has Bandaged moments  –When too appalled to stir  She feels some ghastly Fright come up –And stop to look at her 

The rainbow never tells me ,That gust and storm are by Yet is she more convincing .Than Philosophy

The heart asks pleasure – first -And then, excuse from pain And then, those little anodynes ;That deaden suffering

From cocoon forth a butterfly As lady from her door —Emerged — a summer afternoon ,Repairing everywhere

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر فرانك ستيوارت فلينت، يصف فلينت حب أحد المتحدثين لمدينة لندن ووصف جمالها والخوض فيها.   ملخص قصيدة London my beautiful   هي قصيدة من ثلاثة مقاطع مكرسة لمدينة يحبها المتحدث، تتكون القصيدة من مجموعات سطور مرقمة بشكل غير متساو، حيث يحتوي المقطع الأول على اثني عشر سطراً، والثاني ستة، والثالث ستة، […]

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds also, with the church's protestant blessings) (daughters,unscented shapeless spirited

a man who had fallen among thieves lay by the roadside on his back dressed in fifteenthrate ideas wearing a round jeer for a hat

,Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea London has swept about you this score years :And bright ships left you this or that in fee

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر عزرا باوند، وهي قصيدة غنية بالصورة تصور لقاء العشاق وسط أقواس قزح في البحر.

,The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day ,There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away ,And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide .Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride  ,The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars

,It takes much time to kill a tree Not a simple jab of the knife Will do it. It has grown ,Slowly consuming the earth

Márgarét, áre you gríeving ?Over Goldengrove unleaving Leáves like the things of man, you ?With your fresh thoughts care for, can you

,No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief .More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring ?Comforter, where, where is your comforting ?Mary, mother of us, where is your relief

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton

?Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on .that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth

.I am not a painter, I am a poet Why? I think I would rather be ,a painter, but I am not. Well

If ever the lid gets off my head And lets the brain away The fellow will go where he belonged Without a hint from me

–I’m “wife” – I’ve finished that  –That other state  –I’m Czar – I’m “Woman” now  –It’s safer so 

–I like to see it lap the Miles  –And lick the Valleys up  –And stop to feed itself at Tanks  And then – prodigious step

–I dwell in Possibility  –A fairer House than Prose  –More numerous of Windows  –Superior – for Doors 

,One need not be a chamber to be haunted ;One need not be a house The brain has corridors surpassing .Material place

—My Garden — like the Beach  —Denotes there be — a Sea 

,Pink, small, and punctual ,Aromatic, low ,Covert in April ,Candid in May

,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

;He tried to spit out the truth ,Dry-mouthed at first

,Never trust a mirror ,For the mirror always lies ,It makes you think that all your worth .Can be seen from the outside

You are running away from everyone ,who loves you ,from your family .from old lovers, from friends

The lazy are slaughtered the world grows industrious The ugly are slaughtered the world grows beautiful