If you want to recite modern poetry, what kind of poetry is more suitable?

Keats: "Ode to a Nightingale"

My heart aches, sleepy and numb

Stings into the senses, like a poisoned dove,

It’s like you just swallowed opium,

So you sink towards the Les Forgot River:

It’s not that I’m jealous of your good luck,

< p> But your happiness makes me so happy -

Because in the bright world of the forest,

You, light-winged fairy,

< p> You hide in the green and shadow of the beech,

Let go of your voice and sing of summer.

Hey, if only I had a sip of wine! That clear drink that has been refrigerated

underground for many years,

and as soon as you taste it, you are reminded of the green land,

of flower gods, love songs, sunshine and dance!

If only there was a cup of southern warmth

Full of bright red springs of inspiration,

The rim of the cup is lit with pearl foam,

Stain my lips with purple spots;

Oh, I will drink away from this world,

I will disappear with you in the dark forest:

Far away , disappear far away, let me forget

Everything you never knew among the leaves,

Forget this fatigue, fever, and anxiety,

This A world that makes people sit and lament;

Here, youth is pale, emaciated, and dead,

And "paralysis" has a few white hairs swaying;

< p> Here, a moment of thought is filled with

sadness and gray despair,

and "beauty" cannot keep the brilliance of bright eyes,

Rebirth Love will wither before it can survive tomorrow.

Go for it! Go for it! I want to fly towards you,

I don’t have to ride in a leopard’s chariot with Bacchus,

I want to spread the invisible wings of poetry,

Even though this mind has Trapped and tired;

Gone! Oh, I have gone with you!

The night is so gentle, the Queen of the Moon is ascending the throne,

Surrounded by a group of stars guarding her;

But it is not very bright here,

Except for a ray of skylight, carried by the breeze,

The green darkness and the winding paths of moss.

I can’t tell what kind of flowers and plants are beside my feet,

What kind of fragrant flowers are hanging on the branches;

In the warm darkness, I just Can you guess

What kind of fragrance should be given in this season

to these fruit trees, forests, and grass,

to these white orange flowers, and field roses,

This violet that fades easily among the green leaves,

And the pampering in mid-May,

This musk rose covered with dewy wine,

< p> It has become a haven for mosquitoes to buzz on summer nights.

I listened in the dark: Oh, how many times

I almost fell in love with the quiet death,

I exhausted all the good things in my poetry. Words,

Ask him to spread my breath into the void;

And now, oh, how gorgeous is death:

Suddenly in the midnight soul Leaving this world,

while you are pouring out your heart

with such ecstasy!

You will still sing, but I will no longer hear it——

Your funeral song can only be sung to a piece of mud and grass.

O immortal bird, you will not die!

The hungry generation cannot ravage you;

Tonight, the song I accidentally heard

once made the ancient emperors and villagers happy;

Perhaps this same song had also stirred

Ruth’s melancholy heart made her cry,

Standing in the foreign fields and thinking about home;

It is this sound that often

triggers the windows in the lost fairyland:

A beautiful woman looks at the dangerous waves of the sea.

Oh, lost! This sentence is like a bell

jolting me awake to where I stand!

Goodbye! Fantasy, this deceptive demon boy, can't keep playing its rumored tricks.

Goodbye! Farewell! Your complaining song

flows through the lawn, across the quiet stream,

and slips up the hillside; at this time, it is deeply

buried nearby In the valley:

Hey, is this an illusion or a dream?

The singing went: - Am I sleeping? Are you awake?