外國著名詩歌范例(12篇)
在日常學習、工作或生活中，大家或多或少都接觸過一些經(jīng)典的詩歌吧，詩歌具有精煉含蓄的特點，起著反映社會生活、表達思想感情的作用。那什么樣的詩歌才是好的詩歌呢？以下是小編為大家收集的外國著名詩歌，希望對大家有所幫助。
外國著名詩歌1
路上的秘密
托馬斯·特蘭斯特羅默(瑞典)
日光落在一個睡者的臉上。
他的'夢更加生動
但他沒有醒來。
黑暗落在一個在不耐煩的
太陽強光中行走于他人中間的
人的臉上。
天色如一場驟雨突然轉(zhuǎn)暗。
我站在容納每一時刻的屋里--蝴蝶博物館。
陽光依然強烈如初。
它那不耐煩的畫筆正描繪著世界。
外國著名詩歌2
小心
吉皮烏斯(俄國)
只要你活著，就不要離開，
不論是為了好玩，還是由于悲哀。
愛情無法承受但也不會記仇，
它會把自己的禮品全部收走。
只要你活著，就不要分手，
把你親近的人兒好好看守。
分手即便自由也藏著謊話。
人世間的分手，愛情無法承受。
空虛的'日子在蛛網(wǎng)下編結(jié)，
你的燈光在悲傷中熄滅。
蛛網(wǎng)里，一只蜘蛛在蹲守。
活著的人們呵，要小心人世間的分手!
外國著名詩歌3
請再說一遍我愛你
布朗寧夫人(英國)
說了一遍，請再對我說一遍，
說“我愛你!”即使那樣一遍遍重復，
你會把它看成一支“布谷鳥的.歌曲”;
記著，在那青山和綠林間，
那山谷和田野中，如果她缺少了那串布谷鳥的音節(jié)，
縱使清新的春天 披著全身綠裝降臨，
也不算完美無缺，
愛，四周那么黑暗，耳邊只聽見
驚悸的心聲，處于那痛苦的不安之中，
我嚷道：“再說一遍，我愛你!”
誰會嫌星星太多，每顆星星都在太空中轉(zhuǎn)動;
誰會嫌鮮花太多，每一朵鮮花都洋溢著春意。
說你愛我，你愛我，一聲聲敲著銀鐘!
只是要記住，還得用靈魂愛我，在默默里。
外國著名詩歌4
《海濤》
夸西莫多(意大利)
多少個夜晚
我聽到大海的輕濤細浪
拍打柔和的海灘，
抒出了一陣陣溫情的
軟聲款語。
仿佛從消逝的歲月里
傳來一個親切的聲音
掠過我的記憶的腦海
發(fā)出裊裊不斷的
回音。
仿佛海鷗
悠長低徊的啼聲;
或許是
鳥兒向平原飛翔
迎接旖旎的春光
婉轉(zhuǎn)的歌唱。
你
與我——
在那難忘的歲貝
伴隨這海濤的悄聲碎語
曾是何等親密相愛。
啊，我多么希望
我的'懷念的回音
像這茫茫的黑夜里
大海的輕濤細浪
飄然來到你的身旁。
外國著名詩歌5
《秋日》
里爾克(奧地利)
主啊，是時候了。夏天盛極一時。
把你的陰影置于日晷上，
讓風吹過牧場。
讓枝頭最后的果實飽滿。
再給兩天南方的.好天氣，
催它們成熟，把最后的甘甜壓進濃酒。
誰此時沒有房子，就不必建造，
誰此時孤獨，就永遠孤獨，
就醒來，讀書，寫長長的信，
在林蔭路上不停地，
徘徊，落葉紛飛。
外國著名詩歌6
茅屋
安徒生(丹麥)
在浪花沖打的海岸上，有間孤寂的'小茅屋，
一望遼闊無邊無際，沒有一棵樹木。
只有那天空和大海，只有那峭壁和懸崖，
但里面有著最大的幸福，因為有愛人同在。
茅屋里沒有金和銀，卻有一對親愛的人，
時刻地相互凝視，他們多么情深。
這茅屋又小又破爛，佇立在岸上多孤單，
但里面有著最大的幸福，因為有愛人作伴。
外國著名詩歌7
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov’d by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,Compare with me ye momen if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold,Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,The heavens reward thee manifold I pray.
Then while we live, in love lets so persever,That when we live no more, we may live ever.
外國著名詩歌8
告別
博爾赫斯(阿根廷)
且慢說出我們的再見。
且慢變得象陰沉的天使那樣冷酷丑惡而可憎。且慢吧，我們的嘴唇還在接吻的'親熱中活著。無情的時間在無益的擁抱上泛濫。讓我們一起揮霍掉熱情，不是為了我們，而是為了逐漸靠近的孤獨。光明推開我們，黑夜急急地來臨。我們已經(jīng)到了星光閃爍暗影濃重的籬笆旁邊。如同一個離開丟失的牧場的人，我離開你的懷抱。如同一個離開劍戟之林的人，我離開你的眼淚。且慢去過苦惱的生活如同其他許多黃昏里的一場夢。然后我才趕上而且超越黑夜和行程。
外國著名詩歌9
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!
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not delayed by her heart-frozen cold;
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,And feel my flames augmented manifold!
What more miraculous thing may be told,That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice;
And ice, which is congealed with senseless cold,Should kindle fire by wonderful device!
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,That it can alter all the course of kind.
外國著名詩歌10
《要懷著希望》
西班牙·阿萊桑德雷·梅洛
你懂得生活嗎?你懂，
你要它重復嗎?你正在原地徘徊。
坐下，
不要總是回首往事，要向前沖!
站起來，再挺起胸，這才是生活。
生活的道路啊;
難道只有額頭的汗水，身上的荊棘，
仆仆的風塵，心中的痛苦，
而沒有愛情和早晨?
繼續(xù)，繼續(xù)攀登吧，咫尺既是頂峰。
別再猶豫了，
站起來，挺起胸，豈能放棄希望?
你沒覺得嗎?
你耳邊有一種無聲的語言，
它沒有語調(diào)，可你一定聽得見。
它隨著風兒，隨著清新的空氣，
掀動著你那襤褸的衣衫，
吹干了你汗淋淋的前額和雙頰，
抹去了你臉上殘存的淚斑。
在這黑夜即將來臨的傍晚，
它梳理著你的.灰發(fā)，
那么耐心，緩緩。
挺起胸膛去迎接朝霞的藍天，
希望之光在地平線上已經(jīng)冉冉升起。
邁開堅定的步伐，
認定方向，信賴我的支持
迅猛地朝前追去……
外國著名詩歌11
1、《霧角》
隱匿之鏡中的嘴，
屈向自尊的柱石，
手抓囚籠的柵欄：
把你自己獻給黑暗，
說出我的名字，把我領向他。
2、《水晶》
不要在我的唇上找你的嘴
不要在門前等陌生人
不要早眼里覓淚水
七個夜晚更高了紅色朝向紅色
七顆心臟更深了手在敲擊大門
七朵玫瑰更遲了夜晚潑濺著泉水
3、《你曾是》
你曾是我的死亡
你，我可以握住
當一切從我這里失去的時候
4、《在河流里》
在北方未來的河流里
我撒下這張網(wǎng)，那是你猶豫而沉重的
被石頭寫下的陰影
5、《我仍可以看你》
我仍可以看你：一個反響
在那些可以昆蟲的觸角暗中摸索朝向的
詞語，在分開的山脊。
你的臉相當驚怯
當突然地
那里一個燈一般閃亮
容納我，正好在某一點上
那里，一個最痛苦的在說，永不
6、《蒼白聲部》
蒼白聲部，從深處剝?nèi)o言，無物
而它們共用一個名字
你可以墜落，你可以飛翔
一個世界的疼痛收獲
7、《你可以》
你可以充滿信心地
用雪來款待我：
每當我與桑樹并肩
緩緩穿過夏季，
它最嫩的葉片
尖叫。
8、《時間的`眼睛》
這是時間的眼睛：
它向外斜睨
從七彩的眉毛下。
它的簾瞼被火焰清洗，
它的淚水是熱蒸流。
朝向它，盲目的星子在飛
并熔化在更灼熱的睫毛上：
世界日益變熱，
而死者們萌芽，并且開花。
9、《站著》
站著，在傷痕的
陰影里，在空中。
站著，不為任何事物任何人。
不可辨認，
只是為你。
帶著那擁有藏身之處的一切，
也勿需
語言。
10、《死亡》
死亡是花，只開放一次
它就這樣綻放，開得不像自己。
它開放，一想就開，它不在時間里開放
它來了，一只碩大的蝴蝶
裝飾細長的葦莖
讓我作一根葦莖，如此健壯，讓它喜歡
外國著名詩歌12
Because the king
decrees that every Jew
must buy his wedding－right
in unsold porcelain
from the royal chinaworks，
here he stands， an amorous Jew，
gazing at luminous
suns and moons arrayed
on doths of velvet－blue，
earth that has married fire twice，
that has been shaped and named
for what it comprehends： sherbets， salads，
gravies， desserts． He lifts a platter fine
as alabaster in cathedral windows：
salvation， the passage of light
through bone． Ah， but
not for you， the store－man says．
Closeted， in shipping crates
are pieces no one else will buy
baboon fops in feathered caps，
chimpanzees in petticoats．
Visitors will later testify，
his home was comfortable，
despite the china apes
peering from every corner．
詩歌欣賞：Batuschka
From yonder gilded minaret
Beside the steel－blue Neva set，
I faintly catch， from time to time，
The sweet， aerial midnight chime——
"God save the Tsar！"
Above the ravelins and the moats
Of the white citadel it floats；
And men in dungeons far beneath
Listen， and pray， and gnash their teeth——
"God save the Tsar！"
The soft reiterations sweep
Across the horror of their sleep，
a term of endearment applied
to the Tsar in Russian folk－song．
As if some daemon in his glee
Were mocking at their misery——
"God save the Tsar！"
In his Red Palace over there，
Wakeful， he needs must hear the prayer．
How can it drown the broken cries
Wrung from his children's agonies?——
"God save the Tsar！"
Father they called him from of old——
Batuschka！ ． ． ． How his heart is cold！
Wait till a million scourged men
Rise in their awful might， and then——
God save the Tsar！
詩歌欣賞：Camma
Camma
（To Ellen Terry）
As one who poring on a Grecian urn
Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made，
God with slim goddess， goodly man with maid，
And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day， must I not yearn
For many a secret moon of indolent bliss，
When in midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing， antique－limbed， and stern?
And yet － methinks I'd rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile， whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken， － come， great Egypt， shake
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants！ Nay，
I am grown sick of unreal passions， make
The world thine Actium， me thine Anthony！
詩歌欣賞：A Prayer for My Son
Bid a strong ghost stand at the head
That my Michael may sleep sound，
Nor cry， nor turn in the bed
Till his morning meal come round；
And may departing twilight keep
All dread afar till morning‘s back，
That his mother may not lack
Her fill of sleep．
Bid the ghost have sword in fist：
Some there are， for I avow
Such devilish things exist，
Who have planned his murder， for they know
Of some most haughty deed or thought
That waits upon his future days，
And would through hatred of the bays
Bring that to nought．
Though You can fashion everything
From nothing every day， and teach
The morning stars to sing，
You have lacked articulate speech
To tell Your simplest want， and known，
Wailing upon a woman‘s knee，
All of that worst ignominy
Of flesh and bone；
And when through all the town there ran
The servants of Your enemy，
A woman and a man，
Unless the Holy Writings lie，
Hurried through the smooth and rough
And through the fertile and waste，
Protecting， till the danger past，
With human love．
A Path Between Houses
Where is the dwelling place of light?
And where is the house of darkness?
Go about； walk the limits of the land．
Do you know a path between them?
Job 38：19－20
The enigma of August．
Season of dust and teenage arson．
The nightly whine of pickup trucks
bouncing through the sumac
beneath the Co－Operative power lines，
country & western booming from woofers
carved into the doors． A trace of smoke
when the wins shifts，
spun gravel rattling the fenders of cars，
the groan of clutch and transaxle，
pickup trucks， arriving at a friction point，
gunning from nowhere to nowhere．
The duets begin． A compact disc，
a single line of muted trumpet，
plays against the sirens
pursuing the smoke of grass fires．
I love a painter． On a new canvas，
she paints the neighbor's field．
She paints it without trees，
and paints the field beyond the field，
the field that has no trees，
and the upturned Jesus boat，
made into a planter，
"For God so loved the world． ． ．"
a citation from John， chapter and verse，
splattered across the bow
the boat spills roses into the weeds．
What does the stray dog know，
after a taste of what is holy?
The sun pulls her shadow toward me，
an undulant shape that shelters the grass，
an unaimed thing．
In the gray house， the tiny house，
in '52 there was a fire． The old woman，
drunk and smoking cigarettes， fell asleep．
The winter of the blizzard and her son
Not coming home from the Yalu．
There are times I still smell smoke．
There are days I know she set the fire
and why．
Last night， lightning to the south．
Here， nothing， though along the river
the wind upends a willow，
a gorgon of leaves and bottom－up clod
browning in the afternoon sun．
In the museum we dispute
the poet's epiphany call——
white light or more warmth?
And what is the Greek word for the flesh，
and the body apart from the spirit，
meaning even the body opposed to the spirit?
I do not know this word．
Dante claims there are pools of fire
in the middle regions of hell，
but the lowest circles are lakes of ice，
offering the hope our greatest sins
aren't the passions but indifference．
And the willow grew for years
With no real hold upon the ground．
How the accident occurred
and how the sky got dark：
Six miles from my house，
a drunk leaves the Holiday Inn
spins on 104 and smacks a utility pole．
The power line sparks
across the hood of his Ford
and illuminates the crazed spider web
of the windshield． His bloody tongue burns
with a slurry gospel． Around me，
the lights go down，
the way death is described
as armor crashing to the ground，
the soul having already departed
for another place． Was it his body I heard
leaning against the horn，
the body's final song， before the body
slumped sideways in the seat?
When I was a child，
I would wake at night
and imagine a field of asteroids， rolling
across the walls of my room．
In fact， I've seen them，
like the last herd of buffalo，
grazing against the background of fixed stars．
Plate 420 shows the asteroid 433 Eros，
the bright point of light， as it closes its approach
to light． I loose myself in Cygnus，
ancient kamikaze swan，
rising or diving to earth，
Draco， snarling at the polestar，
and Pegasus， stone horse of the gods，
ecstatic， looking one last time at home．
August and the enigma it is．
Days when I move in crabbed circles，
nights when I walk with Jesus through the fields．
What finally stands between us
and the world of flying things?
Mobbed by jays， the Cooper's hawk
drops the dead bird． It tumbles
beneath the cedar tree，
tiny acrobat of death，
a dead bird released
in a failed act of atonement．
A nest of wasps buzzing beneath the shingles，
flickers drilling the cottonwood，
jays， sparrows， the insistent wrens，
the language of birds， heads cocked，
staring the moon－eyed through the air．
Sedge， asters， and fleabane，
red tins of gasoline and glowing cigarettes，
the midnight voice of a fourteen－year－old girl
wailing the word "blue" from the pickup's open doors，
illuminated by the dome light，
the sulphurous rasp of another struck match，
and foxglove， goldenrod and chicory，
the dry flowers of late summer，
an exhaustion I no longer look at．
Time passes． The authorities
gather the wreckage， the whirr
of cicadas， and light dissembles the sky．
A wind shift， and the Cedar Creek fire
snaps the backfire line
and roars through the cemetery．
In the morning，
I walk a path between houses．
I cross to the water
and circle again， the redwings
forcing me back from the marsh．
Smoke rises from a fire
still smoldering along the power lines，
flaring and exhausting itself
in the shape of something lost．
Grass fires， fires through the scrub
of the clear－cut， fires in the pulpwood，
cemetery fires，
the powder of ash still untracked
beneath the enormous trees，
fires that explode the seed cones
on the pines， the smoke of set fires
and every good intention gone wrong，
scorching the monuments
above the graves of the dead．
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