美国文学诗歌

To My Dear and Loving HusbandBy Anne BradstreetIf 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 goldOr 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. ContemplationsBy Anne BradstreetI 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 VioletBy William Cullen Byrant When beechen buds begin to swell,And woods the blue-bird's warble know,The yellow violet's modest bellPeeps 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 perfumeAlone is in the virgin air.Of all her train, the hands of SpringFirst plant thee in the snowy mould,And I have seen thee blossomingBeside 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 meetWhen 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, forgetThe friends in darker fortunes tried,I copied them - but I regretThat I should ape the ways of pride.And when again the genial hourAwakes the painted tribes of light,I'll not o'erlook the modest flowerThat made the woods of April bright.A Psalm of LifeBy 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-morrowFind us farther than to-day.Art is long , and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral 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 usWe can make our lives sublime,And , departing , leave behind usFootprints 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 theeWild nights should beOur luxury!Futile-the windsTo 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 SweetestBy Emily Dickinson Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.Not one of all the purple hostWho took the flag to-dayCan tell the definition,So clear, of victory!As he, defeated, dying,On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBurst agonized and clear!O Captain! My Captain!By Walt WhitmanO 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 deckYou'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.TearsBy Walt WhitmanTears! 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 SingBy Walt WhitmanOne'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 HelenBy Edgar Allan PoeHelen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yore,That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary, wayworn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was GreeceAnd the grandeur that was Rome.Lo! in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand!Ah, Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy Land!The RavenBy Edgar Allan PoeOnce 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 borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermoreAnd 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, fearingDoubting, 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 beingEver 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 onlyThat 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 linkingFancy 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 expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn 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 theeRespite-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 sittingOn 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 floorShall be lifted-nevermore!。