英语诗歌教程Chapter Three Imagery
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    Robert Browning: Meeting at Night


    The gray sea and the long black land;
    And the yellow half-moon large and low;
    And the startled little waves that leap
    In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
    As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
    And quench its speed in 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 scratch
    And blue spurt of a lighted match,
    And a voice less loud, through its joys and dears,
    Than the two hearts beating each to each!


    Alfred,Lord Tennyson: Break,Break,Break


    Break, break, break,
    On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
    And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.

    O, well for the fisherman's boy,
    That he shouts with his sister at play!
    O, well for the sailor lad,
    That he sings in his boat on the bay!

    And the stately ships go on
    To their haven under the hill;
    But O for the touch of a vanish'd 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 dead
    Will never come back to me.


    Ezra Pound: In a Station of the Metro


    Ezra Pound - In A Station Of The Metro
    The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
    Petals on a wet, black bough


    Seamus Heaney: The Play Way


    Sunlight pillars through glass, probes each desk
    For milk-tops, drinking straws and the old dry crusts.
    The music strides to challenge it
    Mixing memory and desire with chalk dust.

    My lesson notes read: Teacher will play
    Beethoven's Concerto Number Five
    And class will express themselves freely
    In writing. One said: 'Can we jive?

    When I produced the record, but now
    The big sounds has silenced them. Higher
    And firmer, each authoritative note
    Pumps the classroom up as tight as a tyre

    Working its private spell behind eyes
    That stare wide. They have forgotten me
    For once. The pens are busy, the tongues mime
    Their blundering embrace of the free

    Word. A silence charged with sweetness
    Breaks short on lost faces where I see
    New looks. Then notes stretch taut as snares. They trip
    To fall into themselves unknowingly

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