1 Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?By William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature’s c hanging course untrimm'd;But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.2 To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time——BY ROBERT HERRICK Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles todayTomorrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he’s a-getting,The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he’s to setting.That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes still succeed the former.Then be not coy, but use your time,And while ye may, go marry;For having lost but once your prime,You may forever tarry.3 To Lucasta, Going to the WarsBY RICHARD LOVELACETell me not (Sweet) I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you too shall adore;I could not love thee (Dear) so much,Lov’d I not Honour more.4 The Tiger ——By William Blake TIGER, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And water'd heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?5 Love’s Secret——By William Blake Never seek to tell thy love,Love that never told can be;For the gentle wind does moveSilently, invisibly.I told my love, I told my love,I told her all my heart;Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,Ah! she did depart!Soon as she was gone from me,A traveler came by,Silently, invisiblyHe took her with a sigh.6 A Red Red RoseBY ROBERT BURNSO my Luve is like a red, red roseThat’s newly sprung in June;O my Luve is like the melodyThat’s sweetly played in tune.So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I;And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a’ the seas gang dry.Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;I will love thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only luve!And fare thee weel awhile!And I will come again, my luve,Though it were ten thousand mile.7 My Heart’s in the Highlands——by Robert Burns My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here;My heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,My heart's in the highlands wherever I go.Farewell to the highlands, farewell to the North,The birth-place of valor, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,The hills of the highlands for ever I love.Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,My heart's in the highlands, wherever I go.8 The Daffodils——William Wordsworth I wander’d lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host , of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the Milky way,They stretch’d in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!E gaze –and gazed –but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.9 I Travelled Among Unknown MenBY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I travelled among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherished turned her wheelBeside an English fire.Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,The bowers where Lucy played;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes surveyed.10 Jenny Kissed MeBY LEIGH HUNTJenny kiss’d me when we met,Jumping from the chair she sat in;Time, you thief, who love to getSweets into your list, put that in!Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,Say I’m growing old, but add,Jenny kiss’d me.11 She Walks in BeautyBY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON) She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express,How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!12 When We Two Parted——George Gordon Byron When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-heartedTo sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this!The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow-It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame:I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o’er me-Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew theeWho knew thee too well:long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.In secret we met-In silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter ling year,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears.13 To——Percy·Bysshe·Shelley One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it,One feeling too falsely distain'dFor thee to distain it;One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother,And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.I can not give what men call love:But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the heavens reject not,And the desire of the moth for the star,Of the nigth for the morrowThe devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow.14 Love’s Philosophy——Percy·Bysshe·Shelley The Fountains mingle with the riverAnd the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotionNothing in the world is singleAll things by a law devineIn one another’s being mingle —Why not I with thine?See the mountains kiss high heaveAnd the waves clasp one anotherNo sister-flower would be forgiveIf it disdain’d its brotherAnd the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea -What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?15 Music, when soft voices die——Percy Bysshe ShelleyMusic, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory,Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the beloved's bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.16 London——by William BlakeI wandered through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow,A mark in every face I meet,Marks of weakness, marks of woe.In every cry of every man,In every infant's cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forged manacles I hear:How the chimney-sweeper's cryEvery blackening church appals,And the hapless soldier's sighRuns in blood down palace-walls.But most, through midnight streets I hearHow the youthful harlot's curseBlasts the new-born infant's tear,And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.17 The Chimney SweeperBY WILLIAM BLAKEA little black thing among the snow,Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe!"Where are thy father and mother? say?""They are both gone up to the church to pray.Because I was happy upon the heath,And smil'd among the winter's snow,They clothed me in the clothes of death,And taught me to sing the notes of woe.And because I am happy and dance and sing,They think they have done me no injury,And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King, Who make up a heaven of our misery."18 She Dwelt among Untrodden Ways Willian WordsworthShe dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!─Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and ,oh,The difference to me!19 Composed upon Westminster Bridge——by William WordsworthEarth has not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This City now doth, like a garment, wearThe beauty of the morning; silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky;All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!20 The Solitary Reaper--William Wordsworth Behold her, single in the field，Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself；Stop here or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain，And sings a melancholy strain；O Listen! for the Vale profoundls overflowing with the sound.No Nightingale did ever chantMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady hauntAmong Arabian sands;A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird，Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things，And battles long ago；Or is it some more humble lay，Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain，That has been, and may be again?What'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending；I saw her singing at her work，And o'er the sickle bending；I listen 'd, motionless and still，And as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart l bore,Long after it was heard no more.21 Ozymandias——Percy Bysshe ShelleyI met a traveller from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;And on the pedestal these words appear:“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.22 Break, Break, Break （悼念亡友Hallam）——by Alfred Tennyson Break, Break, Break,On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boyThat he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor ladThat he sings in boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill.But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still !Break, Break, Break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea !But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.23 Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening——By Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound’s the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark and deep,But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.——BY ROBERT BROWNINGThe grey sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!——BY ROBERT BROWNINGRound the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:And straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.26 The Lake Isle of Innisfree——BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSI will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,And evening full of the linnet’s wings.I will arise and go now, for always night and dayI hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,I hear it in the deep heart’s core.27 When You Are Old——BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS When you are old and grey and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.28 On the Grasshopper and Cricket——BY JOHN KEATSThe Poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with funHe rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper’s among some grassy h ills.29 FogBy Carl SandburgThe fog comeson little cat feet.It sits lookingover harbor and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.30 Oread——BY Hilda DoolittleWhirl up, sea—whirl your pointed pines,splash your great pineson our rocks,hurl your green over us,cover us with your pools of fir.31 Song to Celia--By Ben JohnsonDrink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I’ll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,I would not change for thine.I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope, that thereIt could not withered be.But thou thereon didst only breathe,And sent’st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee.——BY THOMAS CAMPION There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:There cherries grow which none may buy Till “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry.Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds filled with snow;Yet them no peer nor prince can buyTill “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry.Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threat'ning with piercing frowns to killAll that attempt with eye or handThose sacred cherries to come nigh,Till “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry.BY GEORGE HERBERT Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye;Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie;My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.34 To Helen——by Edgar Allan PoeHelen，thy beauty is to meLike those Nicèan barks of yoreThat gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary way-worn 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 Greece,And 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!35 Sonnet 73BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou see'st the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou see'st the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.36 SpringBy Thomas NasheSpring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold does not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring! the sweet Spring!37 O Captain! My Captain!BY WALT WHITMANO Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather’d 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 ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, 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 anchor’d 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.38 Richard CoryBY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON Whenever Richard Cory went down town,We people on the pavement looked at him:He was a gentleman from sole to crown,Clean favored, and imperially slim.And he was always quietly arrayed,And he was always human when he talked;But still he fluttered pulses when he said,"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—And admirably schooled in every grace:In fine, we thought that he was everythingTo make us wish that we were in his place.So on we worked, and waited for the light,And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,Went home and put a bullet through his head.39 The Tide Rises, The Tide FallsBY HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW The tide rises, the tide falls,The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;Along the sea-sands damp and brownThe traveller hastens toward the town,And the tide rises, the tide falls.Darkness settles on roofs and walls,But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;The little waves, with their soft, white hands,Efface the footprints in the sands,And the tide rises, the tide falls.The morning breaks; the steeds in their stallsStamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;The day returns, but nevermoreReturns the traveller to the shore,And the tide rises, the tide falls.40 To Blossoms ——By Robert Herrick FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so pastBut you may stay yet here awhileTo blush and gently smile,And go at last.What! were ye born to beAn hour or half's delight,And so to bid good night?'Twas pity Nature brought you forthMerely to show your worthAnd lose you quite.But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne'er so brave:And after they have shown their prideLike you awhile, they glideInto the grave.41 To Althea, from Prison——Richard Lovelace When Love with unconfinéd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fettered to her eye,The birds that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.When flowing cups run swiftly round,With no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free,Fishes, that tipple in the deep,Know no such liberty.When, like committed linnets, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my King;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,Know no such liberty.Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for a hermitage.If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.42 Sea FeverBY JOHN MASEFIELDI must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.43 The Noble Nature——Ben JohnsonIt is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night;It was the plant and flower of Light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.44 After DeathBY CHRISTINA ROSSETTIThe curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and mayLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I sleptAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say,‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.He did not touch the shroud, or raise the foldThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:He did not love me living; but once deadHe pitied me; and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm though I am cold.。