قصائد أجنبية

.I AM SAM. I AM SAM. SAM I AM THAT SAM-I-AM! THAT SAM-I-AM! I DO NOT LIKE THAT SAM-I-AM! ?DO WOULD YOU LIKE GREEN EGGS AND HAM .I DO NOT LIKE THEM,SAM-I-AM

ox Socks Box Knox .Knox in box .Fox in socks .Knox on fox in socks in box .Socks on Knox and Knox in box .Fox in socks on box on Knox .Chicks with bricks come

هي واحدة من قصائد دوغلاس مالوك الأكثر شهرة، يركز على الموضوع والموضوعات التي غالبًا ما تكون جزءًا من عمله، كتب عن الغابة والحطاب وقصص المغامرة، كل هذه الصور موجودة في هذه القصيدة.

هي قصيدة للشاعرة دوروثي باركر، وهي قصيدة قصيرة إلى حد ما تحزن فيها المتحدثة على حقيقة أنّ الشخص الذي تحبه لا يحبها في المقابل.

تتابع القصيدة العلاقة بين الرجل والمرأة وهو موضوع لا يزال موضع نزاع كبير ومثير للاهتمام اليوم، في القصيدة يرسم الكتاب من بداية العلاقة إلى نهايتها وتتوج بالزواج ويقتبس بشكل غير مباشر الشعر الرومانسي والبلاطوني للعصور الوسطى

;But, sure, the sky is big, I said ;Miles and miles above my head So here upon my back I’ll lie .And look my fill into the sky

—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

;This door you might not open, and you did So enter now, and see for what slight thing ,You are betrayed... Here is no treasure hid No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring

;Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike !Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here !But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike !Would that it were day again! — with twilight near

I will be the gladdest thing !Under the sun I will touch a hundred flowers .And not pick one

It is not that I love you less ,Than when before your feet I lay But to prevent the sad increase .Of hopeless love, I keep away

tick, Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel— Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens— But the pine tree makes a symphony thereof.

هي قصيدة قصيرة من اثني عشر سطراً لا تتبع أي مخطط قافية معين أو نمط موزون، إنها قطعة واحدة من 246 متضمنة في تحفة الشاعر إدغار

Not in that wasted garden Where bodies are drawn into grass That feeds no flocks, and into evergreens — That bear no fruit

,The press of the Spoon River Clarion was wrecked ,And I was tarred and feathered :For publishing this on the day the Anarchists were hanged in Chicago I saw a beautiful woman with bandaged eyes" .Standing on the steps of a marble temple ,Great multitudes passed in front of her .Lifting their faces to her imploringly

Go, lovely rose ,Tell her that wastes her time and me ,That now she knows ,When I resemble her to thee

My Love is like to ice, and I to fire How comes it then that this her cold so great ,Is not dissolved through my so hot desire ?But harder grows the more I her entreat

Yes, I remember Adlestrop —The name, because one afternoonOf heat the express-train drew up thereUnwontedly. It was late June.

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

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea ,In a beautiful pea-green boat ,They took some honey, and plenty of money .Wrapped up in a five-pound note

–After great pain, a formal feeling comes –The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs ’,The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore ?’And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before

–I’ll tell you how the Sun rose –A Ribbon at a time –The Steeples swam in Amethyst –The news, like Squirrels, ran

,In the dungeon-crypts idly did I stray ;Reckless of the lives wasting there away “!Draw the ponderous bars! open, Warder stern” .He dared not say me nay–the hinges harshly turn

The miller’s wife had waited long ;The tea was cold, the fire was dead And there might yet be nothing wrong

They are all gone away ,The House is shut and still .There is nothing more to say

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

He was the one man I met up in the woods ,That stormy New Year’s morning; and at first sight Fifty yards off, I could not tell how much ,Of the strange tripod was a man. His body

:A fortnight before Christmas Gypsies were everywhere .Vans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to the fair ‘.My gentleman,’ said one, ‘you’ve got a lucky face’

–,The glory of the beauty of the morning  ;The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew The blackbird that has found it, and the dove