5首美丽的英文诗

I wish I could remember
by Christina Rossetti
I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or Winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand—Did one but know!
Never give all the heart
by W. B. Yeats
Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
Nothing to Save
by D. H. Lawrence
There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.
To the Moon
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Art thou
pale for weariness
Of climbing Heaven,
and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars
that have a different birth,--
And ever changing,
like a joyless eye
That finds no object
worth its constancy
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and
why
(Sonnet XLIII)
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.。