شعر إنجليزي

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones ,In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done .And start their silent swinging, one by one

,I tried the soft stuff on holiday in Wales ,a mania of teadrinking and hairwashing ,excitable soap which never rinsed away .but I loved coming home to this

;The night is come, but not too soon ,And sinking silently All silently, the little moon .Drops down behind the sky

The day is done, and the darkness    ,Falls from the wings of Night As a feather is wafted downward    .From an eagle in his flight

,A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks ,A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes ,A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks .And towers that touch imaginary skies 

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة جوين هاروود، قصيدة مؤثرة عن مدى صعوبة الأمومة، تصف معاناة الأم على حياتها الضائعة.   ملخص قصيدة In The Park   تم نشر هذه القصيدة في عام 1961، إنها قطعة مظلمة تقدم صورة أقل من مثالية للأمومة، عندما نشرت هذه القصيدة، استخدمت اسمًا مستعارًا من الذكور، وهو الأمر الذي أبعدها عن […]

To be in love .Is to touch with a lighter hand .In yourself you stretch, you are well You look at things .Through his eyes .A cardinal is red .A sky is blue

,Tell me not, in mournful numbers !Life is but an empty dream  ,For the soul is dead that slumbers .And things are not what they seem

Is it so far from thee ,Thou canst no longer see ,In the Chamber over the Gate ,That old man desolate

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

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 whiskey stink of rot has settled in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises .when I touch the dying tomato plants

Driving from my parent’s home to Cochin last Friday ,morning, I saw my mother ,beside me

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

I will go with my Father a-ploughing  ,To the Green Field by the sea  And the rooks and corbies and seagulls  .Will come flocking after me 

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach  .Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s approach  ,Now Betty from her master’s bed had flown  .And softly stole to discompose her own 

.Take back your suit It came when I was weary and distraught ?With hunger. Could I guess the fruit you brought  ,I ate in mere desire of any food

I cast a backward look—how changed !The scenes of other days I walk, a wearied man, estranged .From youth’s delightful ways

Oh button, don’t go thinking we loved pianos .more than elephants, air conditioning more than air We loved honey, just loved it, and went into stores .to smell the sweet perfume of unworn leather shoes

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’m standing here inside my skin which will do for a Human Remains Pouch .for the moment. Look down there (up here) Quickly. Slowly. This is my front room

O May I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live ,In pulses stirr’d to generosity

.The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch

If you sit down at set of sun ,And count the acts that you have done And, counting, find One self-denying deed, one word

,The world is great: the birds all fly from me  The stars are golden fruit upon a tree  ,All out of reach: my little sister went  .And I am lonely

,Most near, most dear, most loved and most far Under the window where I often found her ,Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter ,Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand