English poems.doc
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1、Prologue of the Canterbury TalesGeoffrey Chaucer (1340-1400)When April with his showers sweet with fruitThe drought of March has pierced unto the rootAnd bathed each vein with liquor that has powerTo generate therein and sire the flower;When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,Quickened again, in
2、 every holt and heath,The tender shoots and buds, and the young sunInto the Ram one half his course has run,And many little birds make melodyThat sleep through all the night with open eyeThen do folk long to go on pilgrimage,And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,To distant shrines well known
3、 in sundry lands.And specially from every shires endOf England they to Canterbury wend,The holy blessed martyr there to seekWho helped them when they lay so ill and wealBefell that, in that season, on a dayIn Southwark, at the Tabard, as I layReady to start upon my pilgrimageTo Canterbury, full of d
4、evout homage,There came at nightfall to that hostelrySome nine and twenty in a companyOf sundry persons who had chanced to fallIn fellowship, and pilgrims were they allThat toward Canterbury town would ride.The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,And well we there were eased, and of the best.An
5、d briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,So had I spoken with them, every one,That I was of their fellowship anon,And made agreement that wed early riseTo take the road, as you I will apprise.But none the less, whilst I have time and space,Before yet farther in this tale I pace,It seems to me accord
6、ant with reasonTo inform you of the state of every oneOf all of these, as it appeared to me,And who they were, and what was their degree,And even how arrayed there at the inn;And with a knight thus will I first begin.Excerpt from HamletWilliam Shakespeare (1564-1616)To be, or not to be: that is the
7、question,Whether tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep;No more; and by a sleep to say we endTheheartache, and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to, tis a consummatio
8、nDevoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep.To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, theres the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause. Theres the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of tim
9、e,Th oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely,The pangs of despised love, the laws delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of th unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that th
10、e dread of something after death,The undiscovered country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will,And makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied oer with the
11、 pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awryAnd lose the name of actionElegy Written in a Country ChurchyardThomas Gray (1716-1771)THECurfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd wind slowly oer the lea,The plowman homeward plods hi
12、s weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towrThe moping owl does to the
13、 moon complainOf such as, wandring near her secret bowr,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldring heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing
14、 Morn,The swallow twittring from the straw-built shed,The cocks shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sires return,Or climb his knees the en
15、vied kiss to share.Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bowd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with
16、a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of powr,And all that beauty, all that wealth eer gave,Awaits alike th inevitable hour:The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,If Memory oer their Tomb no Trophies r
17、aise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honours voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattry soothe the dull cold ear of death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is
18、laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayd,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time did neer unroll;Chill Penury repressd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.F
19、ull many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathomd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Some village Hampden that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromw
20、ell guiltless of his countrys blood.Th applause of listning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty oer a smiling land,And read their history in a nations eyes,Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed aloneTheir glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbade to w
21、ade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muses flame.Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife,Their sober wishe
22、s never learnd to stray;Along the cool sequesterd vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenor of their way.Yet evn these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deckd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years,
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