美国文学诗歌

To My Dear and Loving Husband

By Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one，then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;

If ever wife was happy in a man，

Compare with me，ye women，if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold

Or all the riches that East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench，

Nor ought but love from thee，give recompense. Thy love is such I can no way repay,

The heavens reward thee manifold，I pray.

Then while we live，in love let’s so persevere That when we live no more，we may live ever. Contemplations

By Anne Bradstreet

I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,

The black-clad cricket bear a second part;

They kept one tune and played on the same string Seeming to glory in their little art.

Small creatures abject thus their voices raise, And in their kind resound their Maker’s praise, Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher lays? The Yellow Violet

By William Cullen Byrant When beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the blue-bird's warble know,

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet field their green resume,

Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume

Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring

First plant thee in the snowy mould,

And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view,

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,

And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,

And earthward bent thy gentle eye,

Unapt the passing view to meet

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,

I passed thee on my humble stalk.

So, they, who climb to wealth, forget

The friends in darker fortunes tried,

I copied them - but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour

Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower

That made the woods of April bright.

A Psalm of Life

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist. 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.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

"Dust thou art, to dust returnest, "

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long , and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future,howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, -act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And , departing , leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother ,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us , then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any face;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

Wild Nights-Wild Nights!

By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson Wild nights! Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile-the winds

To a heart in port—

Done with the compass-

Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden-

Ah,the sea!

Might I but moor-

To-night in thee!

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

By Emily Dickinson I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you--Nobody--too?

Then there's a pair of us!

Don`st tell! they'd advertise--you know!

How dreary--to be--Somebody!

How public--like a Frog--

To tell your name--the livelong June--

To an admiring Bog!

Success Is Counted Sweetest

By Emily Dickinson Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne'er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host

Who took the flag to-day

Can tell the definition,

So clear, of victory!

As he, defeated, dying,

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph

Burst agonized and clear!

O Captain! My Captain!

By Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores accrowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Tears

By Walt Whitman

Tears! tears! tears!

In the night, in solitude, tears,

On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand,

Tears, not a star shining, all dark and desolate,

Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head;

O who is that ghost? that form in the dark, with tears?

What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch'd there on the sand? Streaming tears, sobbing tears, throes, choked with wild cries;

O storm, embodied, rising, careering with swift steps along the beach!

O wild and dismal night storm, with wind--O belching and desperate!

O shade so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and regulated pace,

But away at night as you fly, none looking--O then the unloosen'd ocean, Of tears! tears! tears!

One's-Self I Sing

By Walt Whitman

One's-Self I sing, a simple separate person,

Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,

Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse,

I say the Form complete is worthier far,

The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,

Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,

The Modern Man I sing.

To Helen

By Edgar Allan Poe

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy Land!

The Raven

By Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weakry. Over many a quint and curious volume of forgotten lore.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; -vainly I had tried to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermore

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

" ' Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-

This it is and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that: darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, " Lenore! " Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;

'Tis the wind, and nothing more!

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter.

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night ' s Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. "

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy hore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above I us chamber door,

With such mime as "Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that ill~ word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. " Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. "

Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store," Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed fastel-so, when Hope he would adjure, Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure- That sad answer, "Nevermore!"

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore. "

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and Nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Let me quaff this kind Nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. "

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-

On this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-

Is there-is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. "

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. "

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! " Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. "

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o' er him streaming throve his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out chat shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted-nevermore!