英文诗歌鉴赏讲义

Try to remember the kind of September When life was slow and also mellow Try to remember the kind of September When grass was green and grain was yellow Try to remember the kind of September

When you were a tender and a callow fellow Try to remember and if you remember Then follow—follow, oh—oh

Try to remember the kind of September That no one wept except the willow Try to remember the kind of September That dreams were kept beside your pillow Try to remember the kind of September When love was an ember about to billow Try to remember and if you remember Then follow—follow, oh—oh

Deep in December it?s nice to remember Although you know the snow will follow Deep in December it?s nice to remember The fire of September that made us mellow Deep in December our hearts should remember And follow—follow, oh—oh

Scarborough Fair

Are you going to Scarborough Fair Parsley,sage,rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there She once was a true love of mine Tell her to make me a cambric shirt

(On the side of a hill in the deep forest green) Parsley,sage,rosemary and thyme

(Tracing of sparrow on the snow crested brown) Without to seams nor needle work

(Blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain) Then she?ll be a true love of mine (Sleeps unaware of the clarion call) Tell her to find me an acre of land

(On the side of a hill asprinkling of leaves) Parsley,sage,rosemary and thyme

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(Washes the grave with silvery tears) Between the salt water and the sea strand (A soldier cleans and polishes a gun) Then she?ll be a true love of mine

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather (War bellows blazing in scarlet battalions) Parsley,sage,rosemary and thyme (Generals order their soldiers to kill) And gather it all in a bunch of heather

(And to fight for a cause they?ve long ago forgotten) Then she?ll be a true love of mine Are you going to Scarborough Fair Parsley,sage,rosemary and thyme Remember me to one who lives there She once was a true love of mine

Poetry

What is Poetry? Who knows? Not a rose, but the scent of the rose; Not the sky, but the light in the sky; Not the fly, but the gleam of the fly; Not the sea, but the sound of the sea; Not myself, but what makes me See, hear, and feel something that prose Cannot: and what is it, who knows?

—Eleanor Farjeon

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight for the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day?s most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood?s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! —and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

If I Had My Lifeto Live Over

I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth wouldgo into a holding pattern if I weren?t there for the day.

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I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

I would have talked less and listened more.

I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.

I would have eaten the popcorn in the “good” living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.

I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer daybecause my hair had just been teased and sprayed. I would have sat on the lawn with my grass stains.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.

I would never have bought anything just because it was practical,wouldn?t show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.

Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy,I?d have cherished every moment and realized that the wondermentgrowing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, “Later.Now go get washed up for dinner.” There would have been more “I love yous” More “I?m sorrys.”

But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute.Look at it and really see it. Live it and never give it back. STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!

Don?t worry about who doesn?t like you, who has more, or who?s doing what. Instead, let?s cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us.

Let?s think about what God has blessed us with. And what we are doing each day to promote ourselves mentally, physically, emotionally, as well as spiritually.

Life is too short to let it pass you by. We only have one shot at this and then it?s gone.

I hope you all have a blessed day.

—Erma Bombeck

Sliver

Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon;

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This way, and that, she peers, and sees Sliver fruit upon silver trees; One by one the casements catch

Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; Couched in his kennel, like a log, With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep; A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws, and silver eye;

And motionless fish in the water gleam, By silver reeds in a silver stream.

—Walter de la Mare

Buss Stop I ran up the door, Open the stairs, Said my pajamas, And put on my prayers, Turned off my bed, Tumbled in to my light,

And all because

You kissed me good-night. Why Do I Love You, Sir “Why do I love” You, Sir? Because—

The Wind does not require the Grass To answer—Wherefore when he passes She cannot keep Her place

Because He Knows—and Do not You—

And we Know not— Enough for Us

The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye Wherefore it shut—when He was by—

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Because He knows it cannot speak— And reasons not contained— —of Talk—

There be—preferred by Dantier Folk— The Sunrise—Sir—compelleth Me— Because He?s Sunrise—and I see— Therefore—Then— I love thee—

—Emily Dickinson

Bed in Summer

In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people?s feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?

—Robert Louis Stevenson

一个人不欢喜诗，何以文学趣味就低下呢？因为一切纯文学都要有诗的特质。一部好小说或是一部好戏剧都要当一首诗看。诗比别类文学较谨严，较纯粹，较精微。如果对于诗没有兴趣，对于小说戏剧散文等等的佳妙处也终不免有些隔膜。不爱好诗而爱好小说戏剧的人们大半在小说和戏剧中只能见到最粗浅的一部分，就是故事。所以他们看小说和戏剧，不问它们的艺术技巧，只求它们里面有有趣的故事。他们最爱读的小说不是描写内心生活或是社会真相的作品，而纯粹是《福尔摩斯侦探案》之类的东西。爱好故事本来不是一件坏事，但是如果要真能欣赏文学，我们一定要超过原始的童稚的好奇心，要超过对于《福尔摩斯侦探案》的爱好，去求艺术家对于人生的深刻的观照.“观照”这里指观察和认识。以及他们传达这种观照的技巧。第一流小说家不尽是会讲故事的人，第一流小说中的故事大半只像枯树搭成的花架，用处只在撑持住一园锦绣灿烂生气蓬勃的葛藤花卉。这些故事以外的东西就是小说中的诗。读小说只见到故事而没有见到它的诗，就像看到花架而忘记架上的花。要养成纯正的文学趣味，

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