شعر إنجليزي

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

.The darkness crumbles away ,It is the same old druid Time as ever ,Only a live thing leaps my hand ,A queer sardonic rat

,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 

,Between the dark and the daylight ,When the night is beginning to lower ,Comes a pause in the day’s occupations .That is known as the Children’s Hour

,I shot an arrow into the air ;It fell to earth, I knew not where For, so swiftly it flew, the sight .Could not follow it in its flight

;Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest ,Home-keeping hearts are happiest For those that wander they know not where ;Are full of trouble and full of care

Listen, my children, and you shall hear  ,Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere  ;On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five  Hardly a man is now alive 

,In broad daylight, and at noon Yesterday I saw the moon ,Sailing high, but faint and white .As a school-boy’s paper kite

;I am poor and old and blind The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate And covers me with dust

,All are architects of Fate ;Working in these walls of Time ,Some with massive deeds and great .Some with ornaments of rhyme

Ojibwa —,The owl    Au The owl    Au

.No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano Spanish Proverb—

O sweet illusions of song ,That tempt me everywhere In the lonely fields, and the throng !Of the crowded thoroughfare

:O gift of God! O perfect day ;Whereon shall no man work, but play ,Whereon it is enough for me !Not to be doing, but to be

,Indeed indeed, I cannot tell ,Though I ponder on it well Which were easier to state All my love or all my hate

,Now, rallying once if ne’er again  ,With flag at half-mast flown  A people in dire need and strain  .Mans Tyra’s bastion 

,Along Ancona’s hills the shimmering heat A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow Like flashing seas of green, which toss and beat Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet

When Americans say a man takes liberties, they mean he's gone too far. In Philadelphia today I saw a kid on a leash look mom-ward

.You are so poor that all you have is a country Whenever you open your mouth you talk about the country .to which you can no longer return

We need quarters like King Tut needed a boat. A slave could row him to heaven from his crypt in Egypt full of loot.

Don't kill yourself today because your Netflix free trial still has a week left .Don't kill yourself today because no one else will finish off the chicken in the fridge Don't kill yourself today because I know for a fact Starbucks is introducing a new frappachino sometime next month

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة تانيجوتشي بوسون، وهي هايكو جميلة، تصف عثة القمر نائمة على جرس المعبد.

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر ماساوكا شيكي، وهي قصيدة مدروسة، يصف الآثار السلبية والمظلمة لقتل العنكبوت.

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر ماتسوو باشو، هي قصيدة هايكو تتعامل مع بركة قديمة والصوت الذي يصدره الضفدع الذي يقفز فيها.

,You made me cry in cruel stations So I missed many trains. You married others In plausible buildings. The subsequent son Became my boss. You promised me nothing

;You cannot do this to them, these are my people .I am not speaking of poetry, I am not speaking of art .you cannot do this to them, these are my people .you cannot hack away the horizon in front of their eyes